To my Father

Related quotes

She is my daughter, I am her father

When she criesMy heart criesI feel Stabbed byA sharp knifeHer tears make meWrithe in painWhen she laughsMy heart jumps in joyWhen she is awayIn my mindThoughts about her playWorried of her welfareUnable to concentrateMy mind swaysShe is the melodyOf my life’s songDearestOf all the facesI am the plantShe, my flowerThe most preciousGift to meFrom my wifeShe is my daughterI am her father

He shot his daughter

(This is a true story)

One day a man was showing off his loaded gun to a friend.It accidentally discharged and it brought his daughter's life to an end.The bullet went through his hand and hit his baby daughter.He was horrified when he learned that he shot her.The man was being irresponsible when he was showing off his loaded gun.Owning a firearm takes responsibility and if you're not responsible, you shouldn't own one.

In opulent estates,fountains gazelle and bridal-train gardens drainabundantly over spear-tipped walls.Grecian statues offer laureled wisdomto butlered adults with paper-weight hearts,who answer the burning and gunning of America,by building more prisons.

Nobody cares what El Gato'll find to eat or where he'll sleep,under street lights throwing dirt clodsat hornets' nests, unafraid of being stung,he vows to avenge his poverty,to gash unmercifully with a bicycle chainspineless attorneys taking advantage of his misery,rob a construction executive in a limousinesampling heroin off a hooker's thigh,mug preppy brokers with golden smileswhose gutter glares condemn him,and all the chumpswho never cracked a soup-line biscuitor had a court gavel crush their life,should know he plans violent schemes against you,

Twelve years old. El Gato is no good,dime bagging Peruvian flakes,inhaling a glue-rag.With all your police and prison sentences,you can't chase El Gato from the streetor stop him from selling drugs,because in his square white paperlives God -- El Gato deals God -- who gives reprievefrom earthly hell and makes him feel good,gives him hope and self-esteem,and transforms despair to a cocaine-heaven,until he's killed or OD'slike other homeboys trashedon a stack of county jail corpses,who understood life was a sewer gratetheir dignity poured down with discarded litter,where crack creates light when all one has is darkness.

Crack is Godwhen hopeless days bury El Gato underrock piles of despair,blocking him from feeling any more,breaking his heart into pieces of NOTHING.El Gato is no good and preaches NOTHING door to door,a strong kid full of NOTHING,from NOTHING does he ask a blessing,to NOTHING does he pray, hopes NOTHINGforgive his wrongs and NOTHINGhelps when he take vengeance on us.

Now fourteen,beneath a moon above the sport caster's booth,at the out doors boxing coliseum,after crowds go home and the ring removed,El Gato shadow boxes invisible opponentsand raises his hand as champion.He joins homeboys against a rival gang,skips bleachers over hand-rails out of breath,and holds court in the field with bats, pipes, chains,brass knuckles and guns,in a game every kid has to hold a five-ace winning heart,or die with a poker player's bluffing hand –death nothing but an eight-ball roll on the break.

At sixteen,a brown fighting get down impromptu warrior,lip-pursed ooohing fevered to defy,clicking tap shoes on sidewalks,chi chi chi cano, heel to toe, chin to chest,chi chi chi cano,T-shirt rolled to bare midriff, pomade hair back,low-hugging hip khakis,inked-cross on right hand,bandanna'd, top buttontied on his Pendelton, lean and mean,haunting us with his gangsta' signs.

El Gato learned his history around water-bucket talk,listening to mule-tongued growersmutter holy whys they barbwired lands off,clacking hoe in grower's dirton skulls and bones of his peoplemurdered and buried in chains.In branding-hot noonhe cuts lettuce for bronc-buckledsoft palmed land ownersposing as frontiersmen,their steer-horn cadillac radiostuned to religious broadcastblaring glory to their godliness,as they loom over him,'God hates you spic. God hates you!You're dirt, boy, dirt! Even dirt grows weeds,but you, you're dirt that don't grow nothing but more dirt!'

Beat purple at nine,wood-paddle whizzingbutt bullet stings.El Gato touched washcloth to welted bruiseson thighs, legs, back, winced under the shower nozzle, cursing life.His heart the severed head of an outlawpickled in a jar of liquor and drugsto numb the hurt.

Purging his shame for being born,OD'd, was stabbed and shot,wanting to believe he was bad.It was better than falling into darknesswhere nothing existed but more darkness.He wanted to exist even as dirt, no good dirt.

At nineteen, trying to rebuild his life,El Gato got the urge to get high and did –put pistol to his head and played roulette,his bloodshot drunkard's eye seething ragehis guardian angel didn't want him dead.

The dirt yard pleads for his daughter's laughter,her tricycle treads scribble,You are always gone,in whiskey and drugs,never here to play or help me grow.

No heat, light or food.His baby's cryingchisels on the headstone of his bonesher need for a father,wobbles to a stopwhen he picks her from the crib,inhales her milky aroma,patting and kissing her,walking her back and forthin the cold living room,warming her with his skin heat,breathing warmth on her,holding her to his chest,humming a deep-chest hymnlearned from his grandmother –' Bendito, bendito, bendito sea dios,los angeles cantan y daban a dios...'

' Blessed, blessed blessed is the lordthe angels sing and give to the Lord...'Her tiny hand flexes, a wingunwrinkling from cocoon for flight,fossilized in the stone of his arms.El Gato is two men with one life –he loves her, cares about her feelings,wants to live at home, be a family man,grow old with one woman.But the warrior bares thorny teethat domesticity, slurs in disgustat the dreamer's naiveté,wants to brawl unafraid of dying young.

Tonight his infant is himand he is her. He sees himselfas he was born,innocent and perfect, whole life ahead of him,and sees she can become him,no good. He hums her holding tight,melting into one hug humming her'til dawn thaws frost down window casementsinto stucco cracks, stray hounds croon in ruts,yeowling cold from jaws, tooth-scratchingstickers from paws, he walks and walkshis sleeping infant in his arms,humming hurting-man blues.

Thinking how to give his family a better life,he strolls the ditch-bank next morning,surprised to see pebbles last night's rain uncovered --blues and greens. He wants his tears to revealwhat is covered in him like that.He throws a stone in the irrigation water,where it gasps his child's awe-struck mouth glistensfor breath, for a chance at life, glimmering ripples calling him to be a father.El Gato realizes he must start today.Where the stone hits is the center of the ripples,where the stone hits is the center that causes action. Wherethe stone hits is the beginning,where he is now,is the center. He is the stone, he held in his hand as a kid and threw to see how far it could go.

El Gato changed.At twenty onehe prays his lightning selfcarve from thrown away wood-pile daysa faithcut deep to the knot-core of his heart,giving him a limb-top buoyancy,awakening, a realization that he wasa good man, a good human being,healing emotional earthquakes in himself.

Sigismond And Guiscardo. From Boccace

While Norman Tancred in Salerno reigned,The title of a gracious Prince he gained;Till turned a tyrant in his latter days,He lost the lustre of his former praise,And from the bright meridian where he stoodDescending dipped his hands in lovers' blood.

This Prince, of Fortune's favour long possessed,Yet was with one fair daughter only blessed;And blessed he might have been with her alone,But oh! how much more happy had he none!She was his care, his hope, and his delight,Most in his thought, and ever in his sight:Next, nay beyond his life, he held her dear;She lived by him, and now he lived in her.For this, when ripe for marriage, he delayedHer nuptial bands, and kept her long a maid,As envying any else should share a partOf what was his, and claiming all her heart.At length, as public decency required,And all his vassals eagerly desired,With mind averse, he rather underwentHis people's will than gave his own consent.So was she torn, as from a lover's side,And made, almost in his despite, a bride.

Short were her marriage joys; for in the primeOf youth, her lord expired before his time;And to her father's court in little spaceRestored anew, she held a higher place;More loved, and more exalted into grace.This Princess, fresh and young, and fair and wise,The worshipped idol of her father's eyes,Did all her sex in every grace exceed,And had more wit beside than women need.

Youth, health, and ease, and most an amorous mind,To second nuptials had her thoughts inclined;And former joys had left a secret string behind.But, prodigal in every other grant,Her sire left unsupplied her only want,And she, betwixt her modesty and pride,Her wishes, which she could not help, would hide.

Resolved at last to lose no longer time,And yet to please her self without a crime,She cast her eyes around the court, to findA worthy subject suiting to her mind,To him in holy nuptials to be tied,A seeming widow, and a secret bride.Among the train of courtiers, one she foundWith all the gifts of bounteous nature crowned,Of gentle blood, but one whose niggard fateHad set him far below her high estate:Guiscard his name was called, of blooming age,Now squire to Tancred, and before his page:To him, the choice of all the shining crowd,Her heart the noble Sigismonda vowed.

Yet hitherto she kept her love concealed,And with close glances every day beheld The graceful youth; and every day increased The raging fire that burned within her breast;Some secret charm did all his acts attend,And what his fortune wanted hers could mend;Till, as the fire will force its outward way,Or, in the prison pent, consume the prey,So long her earnest eyes on his were set,At length their twisted rays together met;And he, surprised with humble joy, surveyedOne sweet regard, shot by the royal maid.Not well assured, while doubtful hopes he nursed,A second glance came gliding like the first;And he, who saw the sharpness of the dart,Without defence received it in his heart.In public, though their passion wanted speech,Yet mutual looks interpreted for each:Time, ways, and means of meeting were denied,But all those wants ingenious Love supplied.The inventive god, who never fails his part,Inspires the wit when once he warms the heart.

When Guiscard next was in the circle seen,Where Sigismonda held the place of queen,A hollow cane within her hand she brought,But in the concave had enclosed a note;With this she seemed to play, and, as in sport,Tossed to her love in presence of the court;'Take it,' she said, 'and when your needs require,'This little brand will serve to light your fire.'He took it with a bow, and soon divinedThe seeming toy was not for nought designed:But when retired, so long with curious eyesHe viewed the present, that he found the prize.Much was in little writ; and all conveyedWith cautious care, for fear to be betrayedBy some false confident or favourite maid.The time, the place, the manner how to meet,Were all in punctual order plainly writ:But since a trust must be, she thought it bestTo put it out of laymen's power at least,And for their solemn vows prepared a priest.

Guiscard, her secret purpose understood,With joy prepared to meet he coming good;Nor pains nor danger was resolved to spare,But use the means appointed by the fair.

Near the proud palace of Salerno stoodA mount of rough ascent, and thick with wood; Through this cave was dug with vast expense,The work it seemed of some suspicious Prince,Who, when abusing power with lawless might,From public justice would secure his flight.The passage made by many a winding way,Reached even the room in which the tyrant lay,Fit for his purpose; on a lower floor,He lodged, whose issue was an iron door,From whence by stairs descending to the ground,In the blind grot a safe retreat he found.Its outlet ended in a brake o'ergrownWith brambles, choked by time, and now unknown.A rift there was, which from the mountain's heightConveyed a glimmering and malignant light,A breathing-place to draw the damps away,A twilight of an intercepted day.The tyrant's den, whose use, though lost to fame,Was now the apartment of the royal dame;The cavern, only to her father known,By him was to his darling daughter shown.

Neglected long she let the secret rest,Till love recalled it to her labouring breast,And hinted as the way by Heaven designed The teacher by the means he taught to blind.What will not women do, when need inspiresTheir wit, or love their inclination fires!Though jealousy of state the invention found,Yet love refined upon the former ground.That way the tyrant had reserved, to flyPursuing hate, now served to bring two lovers nigh.

The dame, who long in vain had kept the key,Bold by desire, explored the secret way;Now tried the stairs, and wading through the night,Searched all the deep recess, and issued into light.All this her letter had so well explained,The instructed youth might compass what remained;The cavern-mouth alone was hard to find,Because the path disused was out of mind:But in what quarter of the cops it lay,His eye by certain level could survey:Yet (for the wood perplexed with thorns he knew)A frock of leather o'er his limbs he drew;And thus provided searched the brake around,Till the choked entry of the cave he found.

Thus all prepared, the promised hour arrived,So long expected, and so well contrived:With love to friend, the impatient lover went,Fenced from the thorns, and trod the deep descent.The conscious priest, who was suborned before,Stood ready posted at the postern-door;The maids in distant rooms were sent to rest,And nothing wanted but the invited guest.He came, and, knocking thrice, without delayThe longing lady heard, and turned the key;At once invaded him with all her charms,And the first step he made was in her arms:The leathern outside, boistrous as it was,Gave way, and bent beneath her strict embrace:On either side the kisses flew so thick,That neither he nor she had breath to speak.The holy man, amazed at what he saw,Made haste to sanctify the bliss by law;And muttered fast the matrimony o'er,For fear committed sin should get before.His work performed, he left the pair alone,Because he knew he could not go too soon;His presence odious, when his task was done.What thoughts he had beseems not me to say,Though some surmise he went to fast and pray,And needed both to drive the tempting thoughts away.

The foe once gone, they took their full delight;'Twas restless rage and tempest all the night;For greedy love each moment would employ,And grudged the shortest pauses of their joy.

Thus were their loves auspiciously begun,And thus with secret care were carried on,The stealth it self did appetite restore,And looked so like a sin, it pleased the more.

The cave was now become a common way,The wicket, often opened, knew the key.Love rioted secure, and, long enjoyed,Was ever eager, and was never cloyed.

But as extremes are short, of ill and good,And tides the highest mark regorge the flood;So Fate, that could no more improve their joy,Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.

Tancred, who fondly loved, and whose delightWas placed in his fair daughter's daily sight,Of custom, when his state affairs were done,Would pass his pleasing hours with her alone;And, as a father's privilege allowed,Without attendance of the officious crowd.

It happened once, that when in heat of dayHe tried to sleep, as was his usual way,The balmy slumber fled his wakeful eyes,And forced him, in his own despite, to rise:Of sleep forsaken, to relieve his care,He sought the conversation of the fair;But with her train of damsels she was gone,In shady walks the scorching heat to shun:He would not violate that sweet recess,And found besides a welcome heavinessThat seized his eyes; and slumber, which forgot,When called before, to come, now came unsought.From light retired, behind his daughter's bed,He for approaching sleep composed his head;A chair was ready, for that use designed,So quilted that he lay at ease reclined;The curtains closely drawn, the light to screen,As if he had contrived to lie unseen:Thus covered with an artificial night,Sleep did his office soon, and sealed his sight.

With Heaven averse, in this ill-omened hourWas Guiscard summoned to the secret bower,And the fair nymph, with expectation fired,From her attending damsels was retired:For, true to love, she measured time so rightAs not to miss one moment of delight.The garden, seated on the level floor,She left behind, and locking every door,Thought all secure; but little did she know,Blind to her fate, she had enclosed her foe.Attending Guiscard in his leathern frockStood ready, with his thrice repeated knock:Thrice with a doleful sound the jarring grateRung deaf and hollow, and presaged their fate.The door unlocked, to known delight they haste,And panting, in each other's arms embraced,Rush to the conscious bed, a mutual freight,And heedless press it with their wonted weight.

The sudden bound awaked the sleeping sire,And showed a sight no parent can desire;His opening eyes at once with odious viewThe love discovered, and the lover knew:He would have cried; but, hoping that he dreamt,Amazement tied his tongue, and stopped the attempt.The ensuing moment all the truth declared,But now he stood collected and prepared;For malice and revenge had put him on his guard.

So, like a lion that unheeded lay,Dissembling sleep, and watchful to betray,With inward rage he meditates his prey.The thoughtless pair, indulging their desires,Alternate kindled and then quenched their fires;Nor thinking in the shades of death they played,Full of themselves, themselves alone surveyed,And, too secure, were by themselves betrayed.Long time dissolved in pleasure thus they lay,Till nature could no more suffice their play;Then rose the youth, and through the cave againReturned; the princess mingled with her train.

Resolved his unripe vengeance to defer,The royal spy, when now the coast was clear,Sought not the garden, but retired unseen,To brood in secret on his gathered spleen,And methodize revenge: to death he grieved;And, but he saw the crime, had scarce believed.The appointment for the ensuing night he heard;And, therefore, in the cavern had preparedTwo brawny yeoman of his trusty guard.

Scarce had unwary Guiscard set his footWithin the farmost entrance of the grot,When these in secret ambush ready lay,And, rushing on the sudden, seized the prey.Encumbered with his frock, without defence,An easy prize, they led the prisoner thence,The gloomy sire, too sensible of wrongTo vent his rage in words, restrained his tongue,And only said, 'Thus servants are preferred'And trusted, thus their sovereigns they reward:'Had I not seen, had not these eyes received'Too clear a proof, I could not have believed.'

He paused, and choked the rest. The youth, who sawHis forfeit life abandoned to the law,The judge the accuser, and the offence to him,Who had both power and will to avenge the crime,No vain defence prepared, but thus replied:'The faults of Love by Love are justified;'With unresisted might the monarch reigns,'He levels mountains and he raises plains,'And, not regarding difference of degree,'Abased your daughter and exalted me.'

This bold return with seeming patience heard,The prisoner was remitted to the guard.But lonely walking by a winking night,Sobbed, wept, and groaned, and beat his withered breast,But would not violate his daughter's rest;Who long expecting lay, for bliss prepared,Listening for noise, and grieved that none she heard;Oft rose, and oft in vain employed the key,And oft accused her lover of delay,And passed the tedious hours in anxious thoughts away.

The morrow came; and at his usual hourOld Tancred visited his daughter's bower;Her cheek (for such his custom was) he kissed,Then blessed her kneeling, and her maids dismissed.The royal dignity thus far maintained,Now left in private, he no longer feigned;But all at once his grief and rage appeared,And floods of tears ran trickling down his beard.

'O Sigismonda,' he began to say;Thrice he began, and thrice was forced to stay,Till words with often trying found their way;'I thought, O Sigismonda, (but how blind'Are parents' eyes their children's faults to find!)'Thy virtue, birth, and breeding were above'A mean desire, and vulgar sense of love;'Nor less than sight and hearing could convince'So fond a father, and so just a Prince,'Of such an unforeseen and unbelieved offece:'Then what indignant sorrow must I have,'To see thee lie subjected to my slave!'A man so smelling of the people's lee,'The court received him first for charity;'And since with no degree of honour graced,'But only suffered where he first was placed;'A grovelling insect still; and so designed 'By nature's hand, nor born of noble kind;'A thing by neither man nor woman prized,'And scarcely known enough to be despised:'To what has Heaven reserved my age? Ah! why'Should man, when nature calls, not choose to die;'Rather than stretch the span of life, to find'Such ills as Fate has wisely cast behind,'For those to feel, whom fond desire to live'Makes covetous of more than life can give!'Each has his share of good; and when 'tis gone'The guest, though hungry, cannot rise too soon.'But I, expecting more, in my own wrong'Protracting life, have lived a day too long.'If yesterday could be recalled again,'Even now would I conclude my happy reign;'But 'tis too late, my glorious race is run,'And a dark cloud o'ertakes my setting sun.'Hadst thou not loved, or loving saved the shame,'If not the sin, by some illustrious name,'This little comfort had relieved my mind,''Twas frailty, not unusual to thy kind:'But thy low fall beneath thy royal blood'Shows downward appetite to mix with mud.'Thus not the least excuse is left for thee,'Nor the least refuge for unhappy me.

'For him I have resolved: whom by surprise'I took, and scarce can call it, in disguise;'For such was his attire, as, with intent'Of nature, suited to his mean descent:'The harder question yet remains behind,'What pains a parent and a prince can find'To punish an offence of this degenerate kind.

'As I have loved, and yet I love thee more'Than ever father loved a child before;'So that indulgence draws me to forgive:'Nature, that gave thee life, would have thee live,'But, as a public parent of the state,'My justice and thy crime requires thy fate.'Fain would I choose a middle course to steer;'Nature's too kind, and justice too severe:'Speak for us both, and to the balance bring'On either side the father and the king.'Heaven knows, my heart is bent to favour thee;'Make it but scanty weight, and leave the rest to me.'

Here stopping with a sigh, he poured a floodOf tears, to make his last expression good.She who had heard him speak, nor saw aloneThe secret conduct of her love was known,But he was taken who her soul possessed,Felt all the pangs of sorrow in her breast:And little wanted, but a woman's heartWith cries and tears had testified her smart,But inborn worth, that fortune can control,New strung and stiffer bent her softer soul;The heroine assumed the woman's place,Confirmed her mind, and fortified her face:Why should she beg, or what could she pretend,When her stern father had condemned her friend!Her life she might have had; but her despairOf saving his had put it past her care:Resolved on fate, she would not lose her breath,But, rather than not die, solicit death.Fixed on this thought, she, not as women use,Her fault by common frailty would excuse;But boldly justified her innocence,And while the fact was owned, denied the offence:Then with dry eyes, and with an open look,She met his glance midway, and thus undaunted spoke:

'Tancred, I neither am disposed to make'Request for life, nor offered life to take;'Much less deny the deed; but least of all'Beneath pretended justice weakly fall.'My words to sacred truth shall be confined,'My deeds shall show the greatness of my mind.'That I have loved, I own; that still I love'I call to witness all the powers above:'Yet more I own; to Guiscard's love I give'The small remaining time I have to live;'And if beyond this life desire can be,'Not Fate it self shall set my passion free.

'This first avowed, nor folly warped my mind,'Nor the frail texture of the female kind'Betrayed my virtue; for too well I knew'What honour was, and honour had his due:'Before the holy priest my vows were tied,'So came I not a strumpet, but a bride:'This for my fame, and for the public voice;'Yet more, his merits justified my choic:'Which had they not, the first election thine,'That bond dissolved, the next is freely mine;'Or grant I erred (which yet I must deny),'Had parents power even second vows to tie,'Thy little care to mend my widowed nights'Has forced me to recourse of marriage rites,'To fill an empty side, and follow known delights.'What have I done in this, deserving blame?'State-laws may alter: Nature's are the same;'Those are usurped on helpless woman-kind,'Made without our consent, and wanting power to bind.

'Thou, Tancred, better shouldst have understood,'That, as thy father gave thee flesh and blood,'So gavest thou me: not from the quarry hewed,'But of a softer mould, with a sense endued;'Even softer than thy own, of suppler kind,'More exquisite of taste, and more than man refined.'Nor needst thou by thy daughter to be told,'Though now thy sprightly blood with age be cold,'Thou hast been young: and canst remember still,'That when thou hadst the power, thou hadst the will:'And from the past experience of thy fires,'Canst tell with what a tide our strong desires'Come rushing on in youth, and what their rage requires.

'And grant thy youth was exercised in arms,'When love no leisure found for softer charms,'My tender age in luxury was trained,'With idle ease and pageants entertained;'My hours my own, my pleasures unrestrained.'So bred, no wonder if I took the bent'That seemed even warranted by thy consent,'For, when the father is too fondly kind,'Such seed he sows, such harvest shall he find.'Blame then thy self, as reason's law requires,'(Since nature gave, and thou fomentst my fires);'If still those appetites continue strong,'Thou mayest consider I am yet but young.'Consider too that, having been a wife,'I must have tasted of a better life,'And am not to be blamed, if I renew'By lawful means the joys which then I knew.'Where was the crime, if pleasure I procured,'Young, and a woman, and to bliss enured?'That was my case, and this is my defence:'I pleased my self, I shunned incontinence,'And, urged by strong desires, indulged my sense.

'Left to my self, I must avow, I strove'And, well acquainted with thy native pride,'Endeavoured what I could not help to hide,'For which a woman's wit an easy way supplied.'How this, so well contrived, so closely laid,'Was known to thee, or by what chance betrayed,'Is not my care; to please thy pride alone,'I could have wished it had been still unknown.

'Nor took I Guiscard, by blind fancy led'Or hasty choice, as many women wed;'But with deliberate care, and ripened thought,'At leisure first designed, before I wrought:'On him I rested after long debate,'And not without considering fixed my fate:'His flame was equal, though by mine inspired:'(For so the difference of our birth required):'Had he been born like me, like me his love'Had first begun what mine was forced to move:'But thus beginning, thus we preserve;'Our passions yet continue what they were,'Nor length of trial makes our joys the less sincere.

'At this my choice, though not by thine allowed,'(Thy judgement herding with the common crowd,)'Dost less the merit than the man esteem.'Too sharply, Tancred, by thy pride betrayed,'Hast thou against the laws of kind inveighed;'For all the offence is in opinion placed,'Which deems high birth by lowly choice debased.'This thought alone with fury fires thy breast,'(For holy marriage justifies the rest,)'That I have sunk the glories of the state,'And mixed my blood with a plebeian mate:'In which I wonder thou shouldst oversee'Superior causes, or impute to me'The fault of Fortune, or the Fates' decree.'Or call it Heaven's imperial power alone,'Which moves on springs of justice, though unknown.'Yet this we see, though ordered for the best,'The bad exalted, and the good oppressed;'Permitted laurels grace the lawless brow,'The unworthy raised, the worthy cast below.

'But leaving that: search we the secret springs,'And backward trace the principles of things;'There shall we find, that when the world began,'One common mass composed the mould of man;'One paste of flesh on all degrees bestowed,'And kneaded up alike with moistening blood.'The same Almighty Power inspired the frame'With kindled life, and formed the souls the same:'The faculties of intellect and will'Dispensed with equal hand, disposed with equal skill,'Like liberty indulged with choice of good or ill.'Thus born alike, from virtue first began'The diffidence that distinguished man from man:'He claimed no title from descent of blood,'But that which made him noble made him good.'Warmed with more particles of heavenly flame,'He winged his upward flight, and soared to fame;'The rest remained below, a tribe without a name.

'This law, though custom now diverts the course,'As Nature's institute, is yet in force;'Uncancelled, though disused; and he, whose mind'Is virtuous, is alone of noble kind;'Though poor in fortune, of celestial race;'And he commits the crime who calls him base.

'Now lay the line; and measure all thy court'By inward virtue, not external port,'And find whom justly to prefer above'The man on whom my judgement placed my love;'So shalt thou see his parts and person shine,'And thus compared, the rest a base degenerate line.'Nor took I, when I first surveyed thy court,'His valour or his virtues on report;'But trustd what I ought to trust alone,'Relying on thy eyes, and not my own;'Thy praise (and thine was then the public voice)'First recommended Guiscard to my choice:'Directed thus by thee, I looked, and found'A man I thought deserving to be crowned!'First by my father pointed to my sight,'Nor less conspicuous by his native light;'His mind, his mien, the features of his face,'Excelling all the rest of human race:'These were thy thoughts, and thou couldst judge aright,'Till interest made a jaundice in thy sight.

'Or should I grant thou didst not rightly see,'Then thou wert first deceived, and I deceived by thee.'But if thou shalt allege, through pride of mind,'Thy blood with one of base condition joined,''Tis false; for 'tis not baseness to be poor:'His poverty augments thy crime the more;'Upbraid thy justice with the scant regard'Of worth; whom princes praise, they should reward.'Are these the kings entrusted by the crowd'With wealth, to be dispensed for common good?'The people sweat not for their king's delight,'To enrich a pimp, or raise a parasite;'Theirs is the toil; and he who well has served'His country, has his country's wealth deserved.

'Even mighty monarchs oft are meanly born,'And kings by birth to lowest rank return;'All subject to the power of giddy chance,'For Fortune can depress, or can advance;'But true nobility is of the mind,'Not given by chance, and not to chance resigned.

'For the remaining doubt of thy decree,'What to resolve, and how dispose of me, 'Be warned to cast that useless care aside,'My self alone will for my self provide.'If in thy doting and decrepit age,'Thy soul, a stranger in thy youth to rage,'Begins in cruel deeds to take delight,'Gorge with my blood thy barbarous appetite;'For I so little am disposed to pray'For life, I would not cast a wish away.'Such as it is, the offence is all my own;'And what to Guiscard is already done,'Or to be done, is doomed by thy decree,'That, if not executed first by thee,'Shall on my person be performed by me.

'Away! with women weep, and leave me here,'Fixed, like a man, to die without a tear;'Or save or slay us both this present hour,''Tis all that Fate has left within thy power.'She said; nor did her father fail to findIn all she spoke the greatness of her mind;Yet thought she was not obstinate to die,Nor deemed the death she promised was so nigh:Secure in this belief, he left the dame,Resolved to spare her life, and save her shame;But that detested object to remove,To wreak his vengeance, and to cure her love.

Intent on this, a secret order signed The death of Guiscard to his guards enjoined;Strangling was chosen, and the night the time;A mute revenge, and blind as was the crime:His faithful heart, a bloody sacrifice,Torn from his breast, to glut the tyrant's eyes,Closed the severe command; for, slaves to pay,What kings decree the soldier must obey:Waged against foes, and, when the wars are o'er,Fit only to maintain despotic power;Dangerous to freedom, and desired aloneBy kings, who seek an arbitrary throne.Such were these guards; as ready to have slainThe Prince him self, allured with greater gain;So was the charge performed with better will,By men enured to blood, and exercised in ill.

Now, though the sullen sire had eased his mind,The pomp of his revenge was yet behind,A goblet rich with gems, and rough with gold,Of depth and breadth the precious pledge to hold,With cruel care he chose; the hollow partEnclosed, the lid concealed the lover's heart.Then of his trusted mischiefs one he sent,And bad him, with these words, the gift present:'Thy father sends thee this to cheer thy breast,'And glad thy sight with what thou lovest the best,'As thou hast pleased his eyes, and joyed his mind,'With what he loved the most of human kind.'

Ere this, the royal dame, who well had weighedThe consequence of what her sire had said,Fixed on her fate, against the expected hour,Procured the means to have it in her power;For this she had distilled with early careThe juice of simples friendly to despair,A magazine of death, and thus prepared,Secure to die, the fatal message heard:Then smiled severe; nor with a troubled look,Or trembling hand, the funeral present took; Even kept her countenance, when the lid removedDisclosed her heart, unfortunately loved.She needed not to be told within whose breastIt lodged; the message had explained the rest.Or not amazed, or hiding her surprise,She sternly on the bearer fixed her eyes;Then thus: 'Tell Tancred, on his daughter's part,'The gold, though precious, equals not the heart;'But he did well to give his best; and I, 'Who wished a worthier urn, forgive his poverty.'

At this she curbed a groan, that else had come,And pausing, viewed the present in the tomb;Then to the heart adored devoutly gluedHer lips, and raising it, her speech renewed:'Even from my day of birth, to this, the bound'Of my unhappy being, I have found'My father's care and tenderness expressed;'But this last act of love excels the rest:'For this so dear a present, bear him back 'The best return that I can live to make.'

The messenger dispatched, again she viewedThe loved remains, and, sighing, thus pursued:'Source of my life, and lord of my desires,'In whom I lived, with whom my soul expires!'Poor heart, no more the spring of vital heat,'Cursed be the hands that tore thee from thy seat!'The course is finished which thy fates decreed,'And thou from thy corporeal prison freed:'Soon hast thou reached the goal with mended pace;'A world of woes dispatched in little space;'Forced by thy worth, thy foe, in death become'Thy friend, has lodged thee in a costly tomb.'There yet remained thy funeral exequies,'The weeping tribute of thy widow's eyes;'And those indulgent Heaven has found the way'That I, before my death, have leave to pay.'My father even in cruelty is kind,'Or Heaven has turned the malice of his mind'To better uses than his hate designed,'And made the insult, which in his gift appears,'The means to mourn thee with my pious tears;'Which I will pay thee down before I go,'And save myself the pains to weep below,'If souls can weep. Though once I meant to meet'My fate with face unmoved, and eyes unwet,'Yet, since I have thee here in narrow room,'My tears shall set thee first afloat within thy tomb.'Then (as I know thy spirit hovers nigh)'Under thy friendly conduct will I fly 'To regions unexplored, secure to share'Thy state; nor hell shall punishment appear;'And Heaven is double Heaven, if thou art there.'

She said. Her brimful eyes, that ready stood,And only wanted will to weep a flood,Released their watery store, and poured amain,Like clouds low hung, a sober shower of rain;Mute solemn sorrow, free from female noise,Such as the majesty of grief destroys;For, bending o'er the cup, the tears she shedSeemed by the posture to discharge her head,O'er-filled before; and oft (her mouth appliedTo the cold heart) she kissed at once, and cried.Her maids, who stood amazed, nor knew the causeOf her complaining, nor whose heart it was,Yet all dlue measures of her mouring kept,Did office at the dirge, and by infection swept,And oft inquired the occasion of her grief,Unanswered but by sighs, and offered vain relief.At length, her stock of tears already shed,She wiped her eyes, she raised her drooping head,And thus pursued: -- 'O ever faithful heart,'I have performed the ceremonial part,'The decencies of grief; it rests behind,'That, as our bodies were, our souls be joined:'To thy whate'er abode my shade convey,'And, as an elder ghost, direct the way!'She said; and bad the vial to be brought,Where she before had brewed the deadly draught:First pouring out the medicinable bane,The heart her tears had rinsed she bathed again;Then down her throat the death securely throws,And quaffs a long oblivion of her woes.

This done, she mounts the genial bed, and there(Her body first composed with honest care)Attends the welcome rest; her hands yet holdClose to her heart the monumental gold;Nor farther word she spoke, but closed her sight,And quiet sought the covert of the night.

The damsels, who the while in silence mourned,Not knowing nor suspecting death suborned,Yet, as their duty was, to Tancred sent,Who, conscious of the occasion, feared the event.Alarmed, and with presaging heart, he cameAnd drew the curtains, and exposed the dameTo loathsome light; then with a late reliefMade vain efforts to mitigate her grief.She, what she could, excluding day, her eyesKept firmly sealed, and sternly thus replies:

'Tancred, restrain thy tears unsought by me,'And sorrow unavailing now to thee:'Did ever man before afflict his mind'To see the effect of what himself designed?'Yet, if thou hast remaining in thy heart'Some sense of love, some unextinguished part'Of former kindness, largely once professed,'Let me by that adjure thy hardened breast'Not to deny thy daughter's last request:'The secret love which I so long enjoyed,'And still concealed to gratify thy pride,'Thou hast disjoined; but, with my dying breath,'Seek not, I beg thee, to disjoin our death:'Where'er his corps by thy command is laid,'Thither let mine in public be conveyed;'Exposed in open view, and side by side,'Acknowledged as a bridegroom and a bride.'

The Prince's anguish hindered his reply;And she, who felt her fate approaching nigh,Seized the cold heart, and heaving to her breast,'Here, precious pledge,' she said, 'securely rest.'These accents were her last; the creeping deathBenumbed her senses first, then stopped her breath.

Thus she for disobedience justly died;The sire was justly punished for his pride;The youth, least guilty, suffered for the offenceOf duty violated to his Prince;Who, late repenting of his cruel deed,One common sepulchre for both decreed;Entombed the wretched pair in royal state,And on their monument inscribed their fate.

The Ballad of Mabel Clare

Ye children of the Land of Gold,I sing a song to you,And if the jokes are somewhat old,The main idea is new.So be it sung, by hut and tent,Where tall the native grows;And understand, the song is meantFor singing through the nose. There dwelt a hard old cockatooOn western hills far out,Where everything is green and blue,Except, of course, in drought;A crimson Anarchist was he—Held other men in scorn—Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,And also ‘ekal born.’

He lived in his ancestral hut—His missus wasn’t there—And there was no one with him butHis daughter, Mabel Clare.Her eyes and hair were like the sun;Her foot was like a mat;Her cheeks a trifle overdone;She was a democrat.

A manly independence, bornAmong the trees, she had,She treated womankind with scorn,And often cursed her dad.She hated swells and shining lights,For she had seen a few,And she believed in ‘women’s rights’(She mostly got’em, too).

A stranger at the neighb’ring runSojourned, the squatter’s guest,He was unknown to anyone,But like a swell was dress’d;He had an eyeglass to his eye,A collar to his ears,His feet were made to tread the sky,His mouth was formed for sneers.

He wore the latest toggery,The loudest thing in ties—’Twas generally reckoned heWas something in disguise.But who he was, or whence he came,Was long unknown, exceptUnto the squatter, who the nameAnd noble secret kept.

And strolling in the noontide heat,Beneath the blinding glare,This noble stranger chanced to meetThe radiant Mabel Clare.She saw at once he was a swell—According to her lights—But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,She met him oft of nights.

And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,She chatted all the whileOf Ingersoll, and Henry George,And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:In short, he learned to love the girl,And things went on like this,Until he said he was an Earl,And asked her to be his.

‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,‘Oh, say no more!’ she said;‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,‘I wish that I was dead:‘My head is in a hawful whirl,‘The truth I dare not tell—‘I am a democratic girl,‘And cannot wed a swell!’

‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forget‘That you are most unjust;‘’Twas not my fault that I was set‘Within the upper crust.‘Heed not the yarns the poets tell—‘Oh, darling, do not doubt‘A simple lord can love as well‘As any rouseabout!

‘For you I’ll give my fortune up—‘I’d go to work for you!‘I’ll put the money in the cup‘And drop the title, too.‘Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with me‘Across the mountains blue!‘Hoh, fly with me! Hoh, fly with me!—’That very night she flew.

They took the train and journeyed down—Across the range they sped—Until they came to Sydney town,Where shortly they were wed.And still upon the western wildAdmiring teamsters tellHow Mabel’s father cursed his childFor clearing with a swell.

O proudly smiled his lordship then—His chimney-pot he floor’d—‘Look up, my love, and smile again,‘For I am not a lord!’His eye-glass from his eye he tore,The dickey from his breast,And turned and stood his bride beforeA rouseabout—confess’d!

‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,‘And I have loved you true—‘A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shed‘I learned to worship you.‘I do not care for place or pelf,‘For now, my love, I’m sure‘That you will love me for myself‘And not because I’m poor.

‘To prove your love I spent my cheque‘To buy this swell rig-out;‘So fling your arms about my neck‘For I’m a rouseabout!’At first she gave a startled cry,Then, safe from care’s alarms,She sigh’d a soul-subduing sighAnd sank into his arms.

He pawned the togs, and home he tookHis bride in all her charms;The proud old cockatoo receivedThe pair with open arms.And long they lived, the faithful bride,The noble rouseabout—And if she wasn’t satisfiedShe never let it out.

The highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

...

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

His daughter returned from her boarding school, improved in fashionable airs and expert in manufacturing fashionable toys; but, in her conversation, he sought in vain for that refined and fertile mind which he had fondly expected.

Deceiving Looks

People shopping in the mallLooks deceive, while there's so much more to every-one than meets the eye

Boy slim and tallBuying some hair dyeBut what people can't see are the scars on his armHe holds a knife in his hand with wrong useTearing away inside of him is the parent caused harmEveryday he goes home to abuse

Looks deceive, while there's so much more to every-one than meets the eye

Young girl buying some Red BullsBut what no-one can see are the immoral acts that go on at her placeDad rapes his daughter as on her hair he pulls What happens is a disgrace

Looks deceive, while there's so much more

Shy looking lady buying some meatBut what no-one can see is how her husband makes her soreHe pushes her into the seatAs he continues to beat her upIn her face, smashing a glass cupIt will later prove to be a fatal actAs her face is no longer intact

People happily shopping in the mall...Or so you thoughtBut, for many, help is their callTo hide their emotions is what they've been taught

A Son Reaches For His Father's Hand

As they walk, A son reaches for his father's hand, barely able to brush his fingertips.Only sometime later, the father wraps his fingersaround his son's fallen hand.

The son looks into his father's eyes.The father looks down, a tear is heardas it falls onto the clay soil.

The son tries hard to move his legs fast, to follow each of his father's strides.The father looks down, finally he adjusts his gait.His son relieved, breathes normally once more, as he gratefully finds his pace.

At the woods' edge the father chooses the path to the left.Soon they are out of sight.

They see tall trees, fallen trees, rocks, mushrooms, one beaver, two fawns, three ponds with frogs and the like.The son feels both excited and at peaceas they start on one of the trails back.But this time the son gets to choose, left or right.

During the entire walkthrough serenity, neither spoke.

They came to the grassland, no longer just father and son, as they had begun. They returned foreverspliced into one.

A simple walk in the woods, by themselves in nature's blessed bosom, can quitely re-compose the fragmenting noises of daily lifeinto a largo of deepening love.

A moment of simplicity with one of our own, can dissove life's duplicity-denying the frenetic pursuitof the transient. The sowing of seeds of love and loyalty, in the most fragile, fertile of grounds, creates children as Nature's true royalty.It is their blessed spirits which rest softlyon the breast of Mother Nature.

The years elapse, the childnow a father, takes his daughterfor a walk in the woods.Her age, about the same as his back then.He asks her which way she would like to go.She points to the right.

Moments pass, soon they are part of the woods.The father reaches down, embraces her tiny hand.She squeezes, then sort of kneeds his.

They see into each others' eyes.She and he reach for each other.He lifts her to his chest as she wraps her arms tightly around his neck.

The sparrows, look down, then turning skyward, sing smiling.The surrounding peacefulnesswhispers itself into father and daughter, each of them forever together, with mitered hearts.

A Romance of Canada

An English youth to Canada came,A labourer, John Roe by name;His little wealth had made him bold-Twenty sovereigns in gold,He was industrious and wise,And e'en small sums did not despise ;He added to his wealth each year,For independence he loved dear.He knew a labourer he would beForever, in the old country ;His forefathers had tilled the groundAnd never one had saved a pound ;On beds of down they did not lie,And frugally their goods did buy,Their one luxury around the door A few choice flowers their garden bore ;But never hoped to own the soil, But serve as hinds to sweat and toil. To work and toil, for him had charm, He hoped, some day, to own a farm ;So he hired with Rueben Tripp, The wealthiest man in the township.Tripp's only child, his daughter Jane, He sought her love, and not in vain ; As Jacob served for Rachel, dear,So John he served, year after year-Till, rich enough to buy bush farm For to chop down with his strong arm.

The truest nobleman of all, He lives not in ancestral hall,But sheltereth family from harmBy logs rolled up with his strong armsIn this young glorious land, so free, Where each may rear his own roof tree ;And the chief glory of old days, Broad fire place, where big logs did blaze-As much as two strong men could handle-They served alike for heat and candle. He his young oxen did adorn With fine gay ribbons on each horn, And to his home with joy and pridehe did bring sweet, blooming brideSuch happiness is seldom seen,Happier far than King or Queen ;She helped him in the fields to reap,And span the wool from off their sheep,And from the yarn she wove the cloth,All they required, they had for both, And she was a good tailoress-Did make his coat and her own dress.The golden butter that she madeWas of the very finest grade ;Each grace and virtue she possess'd-Where 'ere she was that spot was blessed.And, though they did not have stove then-Neither did they own an oven-She filled large pot with well knead doughAnd baked fine bread 'mong embers glow.

He each winter the forest treesDid quickly hew them down with ease ;For, he to work had a desireAnd the skill did soon acquire ;But, 'round great giants hewed a ring,Then storms would soon them prostrate bringFor many a time the furious breeze.Would quick o'erthrow the girdled trees,And sometimes they would kill the cows .When they did feed on grass or brouse.But after reckoning damage all,A benefit was each windfall ;-Though good fortune now he seesMight have been got from walnut trees.But trees were foes, in his hurry,All were slain, both oak and cherry,And to this day he doth inclineTo mourn o'er slaughter of the pine,And reflects how he did o'erwhelmMany a maple, beach and elm,And each summer day did toil,With his steers, drawing logs in pile.These giants of the forest dead,Fire did reduce to an ash bed,And soon potatoes, wheat and corn,They did the rugged stumps adorn.And Jane did help him with the hoe,And well she did keep up her row-No organs then they had to play,But she could work and sing all day.In spring he did live maples tap,To draw from them the luscious sap ;He gathered it in big log trough,Then boiled it down and sugared offEnough the household for to cheer,With all its sweets, for the whole year.And no such thing those times were seen, As the swift raising stump machine,And where main road was low and damp With logs he built a road through swamp. But a smooth ride could not enjoyWhile it was naught but corduroy-Each year added earth and gravel, Now smoothly o'er they can travel ;For, it doth make an excellent roadFor John and Jane to go abroad,And it is now a great highway

Where hundreds travel every day.There were no roads in early days,But bridal path, their guide the blaze,And mills and marts so far awayThey never could return same day.Log school house served as church for allOf various creeds, and for Town Hall.These scenes to youth do now seem strange,So wondrous quick hath been the change.O'er paths where oxen only trod,Cars quickly speed o'er the railroad,And every way, both up and down,There has sprung up a thriving town.No more he fights with Forest trees,But both enjoy their wealth and ease.Long since the old folks both are gone,And left the whole to Jane and John.The log house, too, hath passed awayWith all its chincks filled in with clay,And in its place fine house of stone,With lawn where choice shrubs are grown, With sons and daughters they are blest-The young men say they'll move north-west.This gives their mother some alarm,She wants them still on the home farm,But father will not have them tarry-They can plow so quick on prairie-And they find coal makes a good fireAnd build their fences of barbed wire ;They would not be forever gone,As they could talk by telephone,

The Birth of The War-God (Canto First) - Uma's Nativity

Far in the north Himálaya, lifting highHis towery summits till they cleave the sky,Spans the wide land from east to western sea,Lord of the hills, instinct with deity.For him, when Prithu ruled in days of oldThe rich earth, teeming with her gems and gold,The vassal hills and Meru drained her breast,To deck Himálaya, for they loved him best;And earth, the mother, gave her store to fillWith herbs and sparkling ores the royal hill.Proud mountain-king! his diadem of snowDims not the beauty of his gems below.For who can gaze upon the moon, and dareTo mark one spot less brightly glorious there?[Pg 2]Who, 'mid a thousand virtues, dares to blameOne shade of weakness in a hero's fame?Oft, when the gleamings of his mountain brassFlash through the clouds and tint them as they pass,Those glories mock the hues of closing day,And heaven's bright wantons hail their hour of play;Try, ere the time, the magic of their glance,And deck their beauty for the twilight dance.Dear to the sylphs are the cool shadows thrownBy dark clouds wandering round the mountain's zone,Till frightened by the storm and rain they seekEternal sunshine on each loftier peak.Far spread the wilds where eager hunters roam,Tracking the lion to his dreary home.For though the melting snow has washed awayThe crimson blood-drops of the wounded prey,Still the fair pearls that graced his forehead tellWhere the strong elephant, o'ermastered, fell,And clinging to the lion's claws, betray,Falling at every step, the mighty conqueror's way.There birch-trees wave, that lend their friendly aidTo tell the passion of the love-lorn maid,So quick to learn in metal tints to markHer hopes and fears upon the tender bark.List! breathing from each cave, Himálaya leadsThe glorious hymn with all his whispering reeds,[Pg 3]Till heavenly minstrels raise their voice in song,And swell his music as it floats along.There the fierce elephant wounds the scented boughTo ease the torment of his burning brow;And bleeding pines their odorous gum distilTo breathe rare fragrance o'er the sacred hill.There magic herbs pour forth their streaming lightFrom mossy caverns through the darksome night,And lend a torch to guide the trembling maidWhere waits her lover in the leafy shade.Yet hath he caves within whose inmost cellsIn tranquil rest the murky darkness dwells,And, like the night-bird, spreads the brooding wingSafe in the shelter of the mountain-king,Unscorned, uninjured; for the good and greatSpurn not the suppliant for his lowly state.Why lingers yet the heavenly minstrel's brideOn the wild path that skirts Himálaya's side?Cold to her tender feet—oh, cold—the snow,Why should her steps—her homeward steps—be slow?'Tis that her slender ankles scarce can bearThe weight of beauty that impedes her there;Each rounded limb, and all her peerless charms,That broad full bosom, those voluptuous arms.[Pg 4]E'en the wild kine that roam his forests bringThe royal symbols to the mountain-king.With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hairFlashes like moonlight through the parted air.What monarch's fan more glorious might there be,More meet to grace a king as proud as he?There, when the nymphs, within the cave's recess,In modest fear their gentle limbs undress,Thick clouds descending yield a friendly screen,And blushing beauty bares her breast unseen.With pearly dewdrops Gangá loads the galeThat waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale,And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the faceOf wearied hunters when they quit the chase.So far aloft, amid Himálayan steeps,Crouched on the tranquil pool the lotus sleeps,That the bright Seven who star the northern skyCull the fair blossoms from their seats on high;And when the sun pours forth his morning glowIn streams of glory from his path below,They gain new beauty as his kisses breakHis darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.Well might that ancient hill by merit claimThe power and glory of a monarch's name;[Pg 5]Nurse of pure herbs that grace each holy rite,Earth's meetest bearer of unyielding might.The Lord of Life for this ordained him king,And bade him share the sacred offering.Gladly obedient to the law divine,He chose a consort to prolong his line.No child of earth, born of the Sage's will,The fair nymph Mená pleased the sovran hill.To her he sued, nor was his prayer denied,The Saints' beloved was the mountain's bride.Crowned with all bliss and beauty were the pair,He passing glorious, she was heavenly fair.Swiftly the seasons, winged with love, flew on,And made her mother of a noble son,The great Maináka, who in triumph ledHis Serpent beauties to the bridal bed;And once when Indra's might those pinions rentThat bare the swift hills through the firmament,(So fierce his rage, no mountain could withstandThe wild bolt flashing from his red right hand,)He fled to Ocean, powerful to save,And hid his glory 'neath the friendly wave.A gentle daughter came at length to blessThe royal mother with her loveliness;Born once again, for in an earlier lifeHigh fame was hers, as Śiva's faithful wife.[Pg 6]But her proud sire had dared the God to scorn;Then was her tender soul with anguish torn,And jealous for the lord she loved so well,Her angered spirit left its mortal cell.Now deigned the maid, a lovely boon, to springFrom that pure lady and the mountain-king.When Industry and Virtue meet and kiss,Holy their union, and the fruit is bliss.Blest was that hour, and all the world was gay,When Mená's daughter saw the light of day.A rosy glow suffused the brightening sky;An odorous breeze came sweeping softly by.Breathed round the hill a sweet unearthly strain,And the glad heavens poured down their flowery rain.That fair young maiden diademmed with lightMade her dear mother's fame more sparkling bright.As the blue offspring of the Turquois HillsThe parent mount with richer glory fills,When the cloud's voice has caused the gem to spring,Responsive to its gentle thundering.Then was it sweet, as days flew by, to traceThe dawning charm of every infant grace,Even as the crescent moons their glory pourMore full, more lovely than the eve before.As yet the maiden was unknown to fame;Child of the Mountain was her only name.[Pg 7]But when her mother, filled with anxious careAt her stern penance, cried Forbear! Forbear!To a new title was the warning turned,And Umá was the name the maiden earned.Loveliest was she of all his lovely race,And dearest to her father. On her faceLooking with love he ne'er could satisfyThe thirsty glances of a parent's eye.When spring-tide bids a thousand flowerets bloomLoading the breezes with their rich perfume,Though here and there the wandering bee may rest,He loves his own—his darling mango—best.The Gods' bright river bathes with gold the skies,And pure sweet eloquence adorns the wise.The flambeau's glory is the shining fire;She was the pride, the glory of her sire,Shedding new lustre on his old descent,His loveliest child, his richest ornament.The sparkling Gangá laved her heavenly home,And o'er her islets would the maiden roamAmid the dear companions of her playWith ball and doll to while the hours away.As swans in autumn in assembling bandsFly back to Gangá's well-remembered sands:As herbs beneath the darksome shades of nightCollect again their scattered rays of light:[Pg 8]So dawned upon the maiden's waking mindThe far-off memory of her life resigned,And all her former learning in its train,Feelings, and thoughts, and knowledge came again.Now beauty's prime, that craves no artful aid,Ripened the loveliness of that young maid:That needs no wine to fire the captive heart,—The bow of Love without his flowery dart.There was a glory beaming from her face,With love's own light, and every youthful grace:Ne'er had the painter's skilful hand portrayedA lovelier picture than that gentle maid;Ne'er sun-kissed lily more divinely fairUnclosed her beauty to the morning air.Bright as a lotus, springing where she trod,Her glowing feet shed radiance o'er the sod.That arching neck, the step, the glance aside,The proud swans taught her as they stemmed the tide,Whilst of the maiden they would fondly learnHer anklets' pleasant music in return.When the Almighty Maker first beganThe marvellous beauty of that child to plan,In full fair symmetry each rounded limbGrew neatly fashioned and approved by Him:The rest was faultless, for the Artist's careFormed each young charm most excellently fair,[Pg 9]As if his moulding hand would fain expressThe visible type of perfect loveliness.What thing of beauty may the poet dareWith the smooth wonder of those limbs compare?The young tree springing by the brooklet's side?The rounded trunk, the forest-monarch's pride?Too rough that trunk, too cold that young tree's stem;A softer, warmer thing must vie with them.Her hidden beauties though no tongue may tell,Yet Śiva's love will aid the fancy well:No other maid could deem her boasted charmsWorthy the clasp of such a husband's arms.Between the partings of fair Umá's vestCame hasty glimpses of a lovely breast:So closely there the sweet twin hillocks rose,Scarce could the lotus in the vale repose.And if her loosened zone e'er slipped below,All was so bright beneath the mantle's flow,So dazzling bright, as if the maid had bracedA band of gems to sparkle round her waist;And the dear dimples of her downy skinSeemed fitting couch for Love to revel in.Her arms were softer than the flowery dart,Young Káma's arrow, that subdues the heart;For vain his strife with Śiva, till at lastHe chose those chains to bind his conqueror fast.[Pg 10]E'en the new moon poured down a paler beamWhen her long fingers flashed their rosy gleam,And brighter than Aśoka's blossom threwA glory round, like summer's evening hue.The strings of pearl across her bosom thrownIncreased its beauty, and enhanced their own,—Her breast, her jewels seeming to agree,The adorner now, and now the adorned to be.When Beauty gazes on the fair full moon,No lotus charms her, for it blooms at noon:If on that flower she feed her raptured eye,No moon is shining from the mid-day sky;She looked on Umá's face, more heavenly fair,And found their glories both united there.The loveliest flower that ever opened yetLaid in the fairest branch: a fair pearl setIn richest coral, with her smile might vieFlashing through lips bright with their rosy dye.And when she spoke, upon the maiden's tongue,Distilling nectar, such rare accents hung,The sweetest note that e'er the Koïl pouredSeemed harsh and tuneless as a jarring chord.The melting glance of that soft liquid eye,Tremulous like lilies when the breezes sigh,Which learnt it first—so winning and so mild—The gentle fawn, or Mená's gentler child?[Pg 11]And oh, the arching of her brow! so fineWas the rare beauty of its pencilled line,Love gazed upon her forehead in despairAnd spurned the bow he once esteemed so fair:Her long bright tresses too might shame the prideOf envious yaks who roamed the mountain-side.Surely the Maker's care had been to bringFrom Nature's store each sweetest, loveliest thing,As if the world's Creator would beholdAll beauty centred in a single mould.When holy Nárad—Saint who roams at will—First saw the daughter of the royal hill,He hailed the bride whom Śiva's love should ownHalf of himself, and partner of his throne.Himálaya listened, and the father's prideWould yield the maiden for no other's bride:To Fire alone of all bright things we raiseThe holy hymn, the sacrifice of praise.But still the monarch durst not, could not bringHis child, unsought, to Heaven's supremest King;But as a good man fears his earnest prayerShould rise unheeded, and with thoughtful careSeeks for some friend his eager suit to aid,Thus great Himálaya in his awe delayed.[Pg 12]Since the sad moment when his gentle brideIn the full glory of her beauty died,The mournful Śiva in the holy groveHad dwelt in solitude, and known not love.High on that hill where musky breezes throwTheir balmy odours o'er eternal snow;Where heavenly minstrels pour their notes divine,And rippling Gangá laves the mountain pine,Clad in a coat of skin all rudely wroughtHe lived for prayer and solitary thought.The faithful band that served the hermit's willLay in the hollows of the rocky hill,Where from the clefts the dark bitumen flowed.Tinted with mineral dyes their bodies glowed;Clad in rude mantles of the birch-tree's rind,With bright red garlands was their hair entwined.The holy bull before his master's feetShook the hard-frozen earth with echoing feet,And as he heard the lion's roaring swellIn distant thunder from the rocky dell,In angry pride he raised his voice of fearAnd from the mountain drove the startled deer.Bright fire—a shape the God would sometimes wearWho takes eight various forms—was glowing there.Then the great deity who gives the prizeOf penance, prayer, and holy exercise,[Pg 13]As though to earn the meed he grants to man,Himself the penance and the pain began.Now to that holy lord, to whom is givenHonour and glory by the Gods in heaven,The worship of a gift Himálaya paid,And towards his dwelling sent the lovely maid;Her task, attended by her youthful train,To woo his widowed heart to love again.The hermit welcomed with a courteous browThat gentle enemy of hermit vow.The still pure breast where Contemplation dwellsDefies the charmer and the charmer's spells.Calm and unmoved he viewed the wondrous maid,And bade her all his pious duties aid.She culled fresh blossoms at the God's command,Sweeping the altar with a careful hand;The holy grass for sacred rites she sought,And day by day the fairest water brought.And if the unwonted labour caused a sigh,The fair-haired lady turned her languid eyeWhere the pale moon on Śiva's forehead gleamed,And swift through all her frame returning vigour streamed.

Some Account of a New Play

'The play's the thing!'-- Hamlet.

Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839. Dear Charles, -- In reply to your letter, and Fanny's, Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead,-- though Queen Anne is; 'Twas a 'plot' and a 'farce'-- you hate farces, you say -- Take another 'plot,' then, viz. the plot of a Play.

The Countess of Arundel, high in degree, As a lady possess'd of an earldom in fee, Was imprudent enough at fifteen years of age, A period of life when we're not over sage, To form a liaison -- in fact, to engage Her hand to a Hop-o'-my-thumb of a Page. This put her Papa -- She had no Mamma -- As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.

Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat, In his budget of proverbs, 'Stolen Kisses are sweet;' But they have their alloy -- Fate assumed, to annoy Miss Arundel's peace, and embitter her joy, The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.

When, through 'the young Stranger,' her secret took wind, The Old Lord was neither 'to haud nor to bind.' He bounced up and down, And so fearful a frown Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind. The young lady, they say, Having fainted away, Was confined to her room for the whole of that day; While her beau -- no rare thing in the old feudal system -- Disappear'd the next morning, and nobody miss'd him.

The fact is, his Lordship, who hadn't, it seems, Form'd the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams, That the pair had been wedded according to law, Conceived that his daughter had made a faux pas; So he bribed at a high rate A sort of a Pirate To knock out the poor dear young Gentleman's brains, And gave him a handsome douceur for his pains. The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns His attention at once to the Lday's concerns; And, alarm'd for the future, Looks out for a suitor, One not fond of raking, nor giv'n to 'the pewter,' But adapted to act both the husband and tutor -- Finds a highly respectable, middle-aged, widower, Marries her off, and thanks Heaven that he's rid o' her.

Relieved from his cares, The old Peer now prepares To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs; Has his will made new by a Special Attorney, Sickens, takes to his bed, and sets out on his journey. Which way he travell'd Has not been unravell'd; To speculate much on the point were too curious, If the climate he reach'd were serene or sulphureous. To be sure in his balance-sheet all must declare One item -- The Page -- was an awkward affair; But, per contra, he'd lately endow'd a new Chantry For Priests, with ten marks and the run of the pantry. Be that as it may, It's sufficient to say That his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day, Built of Bethersden marble -- a dark bluish grey. The figure, a fine one of pure alabaster, A cleanly churchwarden has cover'd with plaster; While some Vandal or Jew, With a taste for virtu, Has knock'd off his toes, to place, I suppose, In some Pickwick Museum, with part of his nose; From his belt and his sword And his misericorde The enamel's been chipp'd out, and never restored; His ci-gît in old French is inscribed all around, And his head's in his helm, and his heel's on his hound, The palms of his hands, as if going to pray, Are join'd and upraised o'er his bosom -- But stay! I forgot that his tomb's not described in the Play!

Lady Arundel, now in her own right a Peeress, Perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries, But produces in time, to her husband's great joy, Another remarkably 'fine little boy.' As novel connections Oft change the affections, And turn all one's love into different directions, Now to young 'Johnny Newcome' she seems to confine hers, Neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse; Nay, far worse than that, She considers 'the brat' As a bore -- fears her husband may smell out a rat. As her legal adviser She takes an old Miser, A sort of 'poor cousin.' She might have been wiser; For this arrant deceiver, By name Maurice Beevor, A shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail, By the law of the land stands the next in entail. So, as soon as she ask'd him to hit on some plan To provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran To that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man; In his ear whisper'd low ...--'Bully Gaussen' said 'done!-- I Burked the papa, now I'll Bishop the son!' 'Twas agreed; and, with speed To accomplish the deed, He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed. By long cock-and-bull stories Of Candish and Noreys, Of Drake and bold Raleigh, then fresh in his glories, Acquired 'mongst the Indians and Rapparee Tories, He so work'd on the lad, That he left, which was bad, The only true friend in the world that he had, Father Onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth, Who in childhood had furnish'd his pap and his broth. At no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth.

The kidnapping crimp Took the foolish young imp On board of his cutter so trim and so jimp, Then, seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp, Twirl'd him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion, And soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean. This was off Plymouth Sound, And he must have been drown'd, For 'twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground, If 'A very great Warman, Call'd Billy the Norman,' Had not just at that moment sail'd by, outward bound. A shark of great size, With his great glassy eyes, Sheer'd off as he came, and relinquish'd the prize; So he pick'd up the lad, swabb'd, and dry-rubb'd, and mopp'd him, And, having no children, resolved to adopt him.

Full many a year Did he hand, reef, and steer, And by no means consider'd himself as small beer, When old Norman at length died and left him his frigate, With lots of pistoles in his coffers to rig it. A sailor ne'er moans; So, consigning the bones Of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones, For England he steers.-- On the voyage it appears That he rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers; And at length reached the Sussex coast, where in a bay, Not a great way from Brighton, most cosey-ly lay His vessel at anchor, the very same day That the Poet begins,-- thus commencing his play.

ACT I.

Giles Gaussen accosts old Sir Maurice de Beevor, And puts the poor Knight in a deuce of a fever, By saying the boy, whom he took out to please him, Is come back a Captain on purpose to tease him.-- Sir Maurice, who gladly would see Mr. Gaussen Breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping a crossing, Dissembles -- observes, It's of no use to fret,-- And hints he may find some more work for him yet; Then calls at the castle, and tells Lady A. That the boy they had ten years ago sent away Is return'd a grown man, and, to come to the point, Will put her son Percy's nose clean out of joint; But adds, that herself she no longer need vex, If she'll buy him (Sir Maurice) a farm near the Ex. 'Oh! take it,' she cries; 'but secure every document.'-- 'A bargain,' says Maurice,--' including the stock you meant?'-- The Captain, meanwhile, With a lover-like smile, And a fine cambric handkerchief, wipes off the tears From Miss Violet's eyelash, and hushes her fears. (That's the Lady he saved from the Dey of Algiers.) Now arises a delicate point, and this is it -- The young lady herself is but down on a visit. She's perplex'd; and, in fact, Does not know how to act. It's her very first visit -- and then to begin By asking a stranger -- a gentleman, in -- One with mustaches too -- and a tuft on his chin -- She 'really don't know -- He had much better go,' Here the Countess steps in from behind, and says 'No!-- Fair sir, you are welcome. Do, pray, stop and dine -- You will take our pot-luck -- and we've decentish wine.' He bows,-- looks at Violet,-- and does not decline.

ACT II.

After dinner the Captain recounts, with much glee, All he's heard, seen and done, since he first went to sea, All his perils, and scrapes, And his hair-breadth escapes, Talks of boa-constrictors, and lions, and apes, And fierce 'Bengal Tigers,' like that which you know, If you've ever seen any respectable 'Show,' 'Carried off the unfortunate Mr. Munro.' Then, diverging a while, he adverts to the mystery Which hangs, like a cloud, o'er his own private history -- How he ran off to sea -- how they set him afloat, (Not a word, though, of barrel or bung hole -- See Note) How he happen'd to meet With the Algerine fleet, And forced them by sheer dint of arms to retreat, Thus saving his Violet -- (One of his feet Here just touched her toe, and she moved on her seat,)-- How his vessel was batter'd -- In short, he so chatter'd, Now lively, now serious, so ogled and flatter'd, That the ladies much marvell'd a person should be able, To 'make himself,' both said, 'so very agreeable.'

Captain Norman's adventures were scarcely half done, When Percy Lord Ashdale, her ladyship's son, In a terrible fume, Bounces into the room, And talks to his guest as you'd talk to a groom, Claps his hand on his rapier, and swears he'll be through him -- The Captain does nothing at all but 'pooh! pooh!' him.-- Unable to smother His hate of his brother, He rails at his cousin, and blows up his mother. 'Fie! fie!' says the first.-- Says the latter, 'In sooth, This is sharper by far than a keen serpent's tooth!' (A remark, by the way, which King Lear had made years ago, When he ask'd for his Knights, and his Daughter said 'Here's a go!')-- This made Ashdale ashamed; But he must not be blamed Too much for his warmth, for, like many young fellows, he Was apt to lose temper when tortured by jealousy. Still speaking quite gruff, He goes off in a huff; Lady A., who is now what some call 'up to snuff,' Straight determines to patch Up a clandestine match Between the Sea-Captain she dreads like Old Scratch, And Miss, whom she does not think any great catch For Ashdale; besides, he won't kick up such shindies Were she once fairly married and off to the Indies.

ACT III.

Miss Violet takes from the Countess her tone; She agrees to meet Norman 'by moonlight alone,' And slip off to his bark, 'The night being dark,' Though 'the moon,' the Sea-Captain says, rises in Heaven 'One hour before midnight,'-- i.e. at eleven. From which speech I infer, -- Though perhaps I may err -- That, though weatherwise, doubtless, midst surges and surf, he When 'capering on shore,' was by no means a Murphy.

He starts off, however, at sunset to reach An old chapel in ruins, that stands on the beach, Where the Priest is to bring, as he's promised by letter, aPaper to prove his name, 'birthright,' et cetera. Being rather too late, Gaussen, lying in wait, Has just given Father Onslow a knock on the pate, But bolts, seeing Norman, before he has wrested From the hand of the Priest, as Sir Maurice requested, The marriage certificate duly attested.-- Norman kneels by the clergyman fainting and gory, And begs he won't die till he's told him his story; The Father complies, Re-opens his eyes, And tells him all how and about it -- and dies!

ACT IV.

Norman, now call'd Le Mesnil, instructed of all, Goes back, though it's getting quite late for a call, Hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall, And tells the proud Countess it's useless to smother The fact any longer -- he knows she's his mother! His Pa's wedded Spouse,-- She questions his nous, And threatens to have him turn'd out of the house. He still perseveres, Till, in spite of her fears, She admits he's the son she had cast off for years, And he gives her the papers 'all blister'd with tears,' When Ashdale, who chances his nose in to poke, Takes his hat and his cloak, Just as if in a joke, Determined to put in his wheel a new spoke, And slips off thus disguised, when he sees by the dial it 's time for the rendezvous fix'd with Miss Violet. -- Captain Norman, who, after all, feels rather sore At his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more, Rings the bell for the servant to open the door, And leaves his Mamma in a fit on the floor.

ACT V.

Now comes the Catastrophe -- Ashdale, who's wrapt in The cloak, with the hat and the plume of the Captain, Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel, Where Gaussen's concealed -- he springs forward to grapple The man he's erroneously led to suppose Captain Norman himself, by the cut of his clothes. In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life, The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels, Fractures his 'nob,' Saves the hangman a job, And executes justice most strictly, the rather, 'Twas the spot where the rascal had murder'd his fatherThen in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother Had the instant before saved the life of the other, Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face On the matter; and since he's obliged to give place, Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace; Norman vows he won't have it -- the kinsmen embrace,-- And the Captain, the first in this generous race, To remove every handle For gossip and scandal, Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle; An arrangement takes place -- on the very same night, all Is settled and done, and the points the most vital Are, N. takes the personals;-- A., in requital, Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.-- V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries aSea-voyage as a Bride in the 'Royal Eliza.'-- Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs, And old Maurice Beevor is bundled down stairs!

MORAL.

The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral, This may serve for all three then:--

'Young Ladies of property, Let Lady A.'s history serve as a stopper t' ye; Don't wed with low people beneath your degree, And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea!

'Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl; And be sure when you dine out, or go to ball, Don't take the best hat that you find in the hall, And leave one in its stead that's worth nothing at all!

'Old Knights, don't give bribes!-- above all, never urge a man To steal people's things, or to stick an old Clergyman!

'And you, ye Sea-Captains! who've nothing to do But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue, And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true, Reflect, notwithstanding your sea-faring life, That you can't get on well long, without you've a wife; So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently, Write a Nautical novel,-- and send it to Bentley!

The Clergyman’s Second Tale

Edward and Jane a married couple were,And fonder she of him or he of herWas hard to say; their wedlock had begunWhen in one year they both were twenty-one;And friends, who would not sanction, left them free.He gentle-born, nor his inferior she,And neither rich; to the newly-wedded boy,A great Insurance Office found employ.Strong in their loves and hopes, with joy they tookThis narrow lot and the world’s altered look;Beyond their home they nothing sought or craved,And even from the narrow income saved;Their busy days for no ennui had place,Neither grew weary of the other’s face.Nine happy years had crowned their married stateWith children, one a little girl of eight;With nine industrious years his income grew,With his employers rose his favour too;Nine years complete had passed when something ailed,Friends and the doctors said his health had failed,He must recruit, or worse would come to pass;And though to rest was hard for him, alas!Three months of leave he found he could obtain,And go, they said, get well and work again.Just at this juncture of their married life,Her mother, sickening, begged to have his wife.Her house among the hills in Surrey stood,And to be there, said Jane, would do the children good.They let their house, and with the children sheWent to her mother, he beyond the sea;Far to the south his orders were to go.A watering-place, whose name we need not know,For climate and for change of scene was best:There he was bid, laborious task, to rest.A dismal thing in foreign lands to roamTo one accustomed to an English home,Dismal yet more, in health if feeble grown,To live a boarder, helpless and aloneIn foreign town, and worse yet worse is made,If ’tis a town of pleasure and parade.Dispiriting the public walks and seats,The alien faces that an alien meets;Drearily every day this old routine repeats.Yet here this alien prospered, change of airOr change of scene did more than tenderest care:Three weeks were scarce completed, to his home,He wrote to say, he thought he now could come,His usual work was sure he could resume,And something said about the place’s gloom,And how he loathed idling his time away.O, but they wrote, his wife and all, to sayHe must not think of it, ’twas quite too quick;Let was their house, her mother still was sick,Three months were given, and three he ought to take;For his and her’s and for his children’s sake.He wrote again, ’twas weariness to wait,This doing nothing was a thing to hate;He’d cast his nine laborious years away,And was as fresh as on his wedding-day;At last he yielded, feared he must obey.And now, his health repaired, his spirits grownLess feeble, less he cared to live alone.’Twas easier now to face the crowded shore,And table d’hôte less tedious than before;His ancient silence sometimes he would break,And the mute Englishman was heard to speak.His youthful colour soon, his youthful airCame back; amongst the crowd of idlers there,With whom good looks entitle to good name,For his good looks he gained a sort of fame,People would watch him as he went and came.Explain the tragic mystery who can,Something there is, we know not what, in man,With all established happiness at strife,And bent on revolution in his life.Explain the plan of Providence who dare,And tell us wherefore in this world there areBeings who seem for this alone to live,Temptation to another soul to give.A beauteous woman at the table d’hôte,To try this English heart, at least to noteThis English countenance, conceived the whim.She sat exactly opposite to him.Ere long he noticed with a vague surpriseHow every day on him she bent her eyes;Soft and inquiring now they looked, and thenWholly withdrawn, unnoticed came again;His shrunk aside: and yet there came a day,Alas! they did not wholly turn away.So beautiful her beauty was, so strange,And to his northern feeling such a change;Her throat and neck Junonian in their grace;The blood just mantled in her southern face:Dark hair, dark eyes; and all the arts she hadWith which some dreadful power adorns the bad,Bad women in their youth, and young was she,Twenty perhaps, at the utmost twenty-three,And timid seemed, and innocent of ill,;Her feelings went and came without her will.You will not wish minutely to know allHis efforts in the prospect of the fall.He oscillated to and fro, he tookHigh courage oft, temptation from him shook,Compelled himself to virtuous thoughts and just,And as it were in ashes and in dustAbhorred his thought. But living thus alone,Of solitary tedium weary grown;From sweet society so long debarred,And fearing in his judgment to be hardOn her that he was sometimes off his guardWhat wonder? She relentless still pursuedUnmarked, and tracked him in his solitude.And not in vain, alas!The days went by and found him in the snare.But soon a letter full of tenderest careCame from his wife, the little daughter tooIn a large hand the exercise was newTo her papa her love and kisses sent.Into his very heart and soul it went.Forth on the high and dusty road he soughtSome issue for the vortex of his thought,Returned, packed up his things, and ere the dayDescended, was a hundred miles away.There are, I know of course, who lightly treatSuch slips; we stumble, we regain our feet;What can we do, they say, but hasten onAnd disregard it as a thing that’s gone?Many there are who in a case like thisWould calm re-seek their sweet domestic bliss;Accept unshamed the wifely tender kiss,And lift their little children on their knees,And take their kisses too; with hearts at easeWill read the household prayers, to church will go,And sacrament, nor care if people know.Such men so minded do exist, God knows,And, God be thanked, this was not one of those.Late in the night, at a provincial townIn France, a passing traveller was put down;Haggard he looked, his hair was turning grey,His hair, his clothes, were much in disarray:In a bedchamber here one day he stayed,Wrote letters, posted them, his reckoning paidAnd went. ’Twas Edward rushing from his fall;Here to his wife he wrote and told her all.Forgiveness yes, perhaps she might forgiveFor her, and for the children, he must liveAt any rate; but their old home to shareAs yet was something that he could not bear.She with her mother still her home should make,A lodging-near the office he should takeAnd once a quarter he would bring his pay,And he would see her on the quarter-day,But her alone; e’en this would dreadful be,The children ’twas not possible to see.Back to the office at this early dayTo see him come, old-looking thus and grey,His comrades wondered, wondered too to see,How dire a passion for his work had he,How in a garret too he lived alone;So cold a husband, cold a father grown.In a green lane beside her mother’s home,Where in old days they had been used to roam,His wife had met him on the appointed day,Fell on his neck, said all that love could say,And wept; he put the loving arms away.At dusk they met, for so was his desire;She felt his cheeks and forehead all on fire;The kisses which she gave he could not brook;Once in her face he gave a sidelong look,Said, but for them he wished that he were dead,And put the money in her hand and fled.Sometimes in easy and familiar tone,Of sins resembling more or less his ownHe heard his comrades in the office speak,And felt the colour tingling in his cheek;Lightly they spoke as of a thing of nought;He of their judgment ne’er so much as thought.I know not, in his solitary pains,Whether he seemed to feel as in his veinsThe moral mischief circulating still,Racked with the torture of the double will;And like some frontier-land where armies wageThe mighty wars, engage and yet engageAll through the summer in the fierce campaign;March, counter-march, gain, lose, and yet regain;With battle reeks the desolated plain;So felt his nature yielded to the strifeOf the contending good and ill of life.But a whole year this penance he endured,Nor even then would think that he was cured.Once in a quarter, in the country lane,He met his wife and paid his quarter’s gain;To bring the children she besought in vain.He has a life small happiness that gives,Who friendless in a London lodging lives,Dines in a dingy chop-house, and returnsTo a lone room while all within him yearnsFor sympathy, and his whole nature burnsWith a fierce thirst for some one, is there none?To expend his human tenderness upon.So blank, and hard, and stony is the wayTo walk, I wonder not men go astray.Edward, whom still a sense that never sleptOn the strict path undeviating kept,One winter-evening found himself pursuedAmidst the dusky thronging multitude.Quickly he walked, but strangely swift was she,And pertinacious, and would make him see.He saw at last, and recognising slow,Discovered in this hapless thing of woeThe occasion of his shame twelve wretched months ago.She gaily laughed, she cried, and sought his hand,And spoke sweet phrases of her native land;Exiled, she said, her lovely home had left,Not to forsake a friend of all but her bereft;Exiled, she cried, for liberty, for love,She was; still limpid eyes she turned above.So beauteous once, and now such misery in,Pity had all but softened him to sin;But while she talked, and wildly laughed, and cried,And plucked the hand which sadly he denied,A stranger came and swept her from his side.He watched them in the gas-lit darkness go,And a voice said within him, Even so,So midst the gloomy mansions where they dwellThe lost souls walk the flaming streets of hell!The lamps appeared to fling a baleful glare,A brazen heat was heavy in the air;And it was hell, and he some unblest wanderer there.For a long hour he stayed the streets to roam,Late gathering sense, he gained his garret home;There found a telegraph that bade him comeStraight to the country, where his daughter, stillHis darling child, lay dangerously ill.The doctor would he bring? Away he wentAnd found the doctor; to the office sentA letter, asking leave, and went again,And with a wild confusion in his brain,Joining the doctor caught the latest train.The train swift whirled them from the city lightInto the shadows of the natural night.’Twas silent starry midnight on the down,Silent and chill, when they, straight come from town,Leaving the station, walked a mile to gainThe lonely house amid the hills where Jane,Her mother, and her children should be found.Waked by their entrance, but of sleep unsound,The child not yet her altered father knew;Yet talked of her papa in her delirium too.Danger there was, yet hope there was; and he,To attend the crisis, and the changes see,And take the steps, at hand should surely be.Said Jane the following day, ‘Edward, you know,Over and over I have told you so,As in a better world I seek to live,As I desire forgiveness, I forgive.Forgiveness does not feel the word to say,As I believe in One who takes awayOur sin and gives us righteousness instead,You to this sin, I do believe, are dead.’Twas I, you know, who let you leave your homeAnd bade you stay when you so wished to come;My fault was that: I’ve told you so before,And vainly told; but now ’tis something more.Say, is it right, without a single friend,Without advice, to leave me to attendChildren and mother both? Indeed, I’ve thoughtThrough want of you the child her fever caught.Chances of mischief come with every hour.It is not in a single woman’s powerAlone, and ever haunted more or lessWith anxious thoughts of you and your distress,’Tis not indeed, I’m sure of it, in me,All things with perfect judgment to foresee.This weight has grown too heavy to endure;And you, I tell you now, and I am sure,Neglect your duty both to God and manPersisting thus in your unnatural plan.This feeling you must conquer, for you can.And after all, you know we are but dust,What are we, in ourselves that we should trust?’He scarcely answered her; but he obtainedA longer leave, and quietly remained.Slowly the child recovered, long was ill,Long delicate, and he must watch her stillTo give up seeing her he could not near,To leave her less attended, did not dare.The child recovered slowly, slowly tooRecovered he, and more familiar drewHome’s happy breath; and apprehension o’er,Their former life he yielded to restore,And to his mournful garret went no more.

Midnight was dim and hazy overhead.When the tale ended and we turned to bed.On the companion-way, descending slow,The artillery captain, as we went below,Said to the lawyer, life could not be meantTo be so altogether innocent.What did the atonement show? he, for the rest,Could not, he thought, have written and confessed.Weakness it was, and adding crime to crimeTo leave his family that length of time,The lawyer said; the American was sureEach nature knows instinctively its cure.

Midnight was in the cabin still and dead,Our fellow-passengers were all in bed,We followed them, and nothing further spoke.Out of the sweetest of my sleep I wokeAt two, and felt we stopped; amid a dreamOf England knew the letting-off of steamAnd rose. ’Twas fog, and were we off Cape Race?The captain would be certain of his place.Wild in white vapour flew away the force,And self-arrested was the eager courseThat had not ceased before. But shortly nowCape Race was made to starboard on the bow.The paddles plied. I slept. The following nightIn the mid seas we saw a quay and light,And peered through mist into an unseen town,And on scarce-seeming land set one companion down,And went. With morning and a shining sun,Under the bright New Brunswick coast we run,And visible discern to every eyeRocks, pines, and little ports, and passing byThe boats and coasting craft. When sunk the night,Early now sunk, the northern streamers brightFloated and flashed, the cliffs and clouds behind,With phosphorus the billows all were lined.

That evening, while the arctic streamers brightRolled from the clouds in waves of airy light,The lawyer said, ‘I laid by for to nightA story that I would not tell before;For the last time, a confidential four,We meet. Receive in your elected earsA tale of human suffering and tears.’

accord,And the louder you call, and the longer you stay,The more I am happy to serve and obey.

To the house of a friend if you're pleased to

retire,You must all things admit, you must all tilings

admire;You must pay with observance the price of your

treat,You must eat what is praised, and must praise what

you eat,But here you may come, and no tax we require,You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire;You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel,And may snarl at the rascals who please you so

well.

At your wish we attend, and confess that your

speechOn the nation's affairs might the minister teach;His views you may blame, and his measures oppose,There's no Tavern-treason--you're under the Rose;Should rebellions arise in your own little state,With me you may safely their consequence wait;To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come,And to fly to a friend when the devil's at home.

That I've faults is confess'd; but it won't be

denied,'Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours to

hide;If I've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate,I've often conceal'd what she lov'd to relate;If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine,'Twas because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by

their wine;And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains,That men drink shallow draughts, and so madden

their brains.

MUCH do I need, and therefore will I ask,A Muse to aid me in my present task;For then with special cause we beg for aid,When of our subject we are most afraid:INNS are this subject--'tis an ill-drawn lot,So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not;Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bringScenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing;Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid; thou hast thrownOn humble themes the graces all thine own;By thee the Mistress of a Village-schoolBecame a queen enthroned upon her stool;And far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shineBelinda's Lock--that deathless work was thine.Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to

please,These seats of revelry, these scenes of ease;Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread,And needs assistance from the fountain-head.High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,The rampant Lion shows his kingly face;His ample jaws extend from side to side,His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide;In silver shag the sovereign form is dress'd,A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest;Elate with pride, he seems t'assert his reign,And stands the glory of his wide domain.Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight,But sign and pledge of welcome and delight.To him the noblest guest the town detainsFlies for repast, and in his court remains;Him too the crowd with longing looks admire,Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire;Here not a comfort shall to them be lostWho never ask or never feel the cost.The ample yards on either side containBuildings where order and distinction reign; -The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest,The ready chaise and driver smartly dress'd;Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there,And high-fed prancers many a raw-boned pair.On all without a lordly host sustainsThe care of empire, and observant reigns;The parting guest beholds him at his side,With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride;Round all the place his eyes all objects meet,Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet.O'er all within the lady-hostess rules,Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools;To every guest th' appropriate speech is made,And every duty with distinction paid;Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite -'Your honour's servant'--'Mister Smith, good night

.'Next, but not near, yet honour'd through the

town,There swing, incongruous pair! the Bear and Crown:That Crown suspended gems and ribands deck,A golden chain hangs o'er that furry neck:Unlike the nobler beast, the Bear is bound,And with the Crown so near him, scowls uncrown'd;Less his dominion, but alert are allWithout, within, and ready for the call;Smart lads and light run nimbly here and there,Nor for neglected duties mourns the Bear.To his retreats, on the Election-day,The losing party found their silent way;There they partook of each consoling good,Like him uncrown'd, like him in sullen mood -Threat'ning, but bound.--Here meet a social kind,Our various clubs for various cause combined;Nor has he pride, but thankful takes as gainThe dew-drops shaken from the Lion's mane:A thriving couple here their skill display,And share the profits of no vulgar sway.Third in our Borough's list appears the signOf a fair queen--the gracious Caroline;But in decay--each feature in the faceHas stain of Time, and token of disgrace.The storm of winter, and the summer-sun,Have on that form their equal mischief done;The features now are all disfigured seen,And not one charm adorns th' insulted queen.To this poor face was never paint applied,Th' unseemly work of cruel Time to hide;Here we may rightly such neglect upbraid,Paint on such faces is by prudence laid.Large the domain, but all within combineTo correspond with the dishonoured sign;And all around dilapidates; you call -But none replies--they're inattentive all:At length a ruin'd stable holds your steed,While you through large and dirty rooms proceed,Spacious and cold; a proof they once had beenIn honour,--now magnificently mean;Till in some small half-furnish'd room you rest,Whose dying fire denotes it had a guest.In those you pass'd, where former splendour

reign'd,You saw the carpets torn, the paper stain'd;Squares of discordant glass in windows fix'd,And paper oil'd in many a space betwixt;A soil'd and broken sconce, a mirror crack'd,With table underpropp'd, and chairs new back'd;A marble side-slab with ten thousand stains,And all an ancient Tavern's poor remains.With much entreaty, they your food prepare,And acid wine afford, with meagre fare;Heartless you sup; and when a dozen timesYou've read the fractured window's senseless

rhymes,Have been assured that Phoebe Green was fair,And Peter Jackson took his supper there;You reach a chilling chamber, where you dreadDamps, hot or cold, from a tremendous bed;Late comes your sleep, and you are waken'd soonBy rustling tatters of the old festoon.O'er this large building, thus by time defaced,A servile couple has its owner placed,Who not unmindful that its style is large,To lost magnificence adapt their charge:Thus an old beauty, who has long declined,Keeps former dues and dignity in mind;And wills that all attention should be paidFor graces vanish'd and for charms decay'd.Few years have pass'd, since brightly 'cross the

way,Lights from each window shot the lengthen'd ray,And busy looks in every face were seen,Through the warm precincts of the reigning Queen;There fires inviting blazed, and all aroundWas heard the tinkling bells' seducing sound;The nimble waiters to that sound from farSprang to the call, then hasteri'd to the bar,Where a glad priestess of the temple sway'd,The most obedient, and the most obey'd;Rosy and round, adorn'd in crimson vest,And flaming ribands at her ample breast:She, skill'd like Circe, tried her guests to move,With looks of welcome and with words of love;And such her potent charms, that men unwiseWere soon transform'd and fitted for the sties.Her port in bottles stood, a well-stain'd row,Drawn for the evening from the pipe below;Three powerful spirits filled a parted case,Some cordial bottles stood in secret place;Fair acid-fruits in nets above were seen,Her plate was splendid, and her glasses clean;Basins and bowls were ready on the stand,And measures clatter'd in her powerful hand.Inferior Houses now our notice claim,But who shall deal them their appropriate fame?Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell,Between the peal complete and single Bell?Determine ye, who on your shining nagsWear oil-skin beavers, and bear seal-skin bags;Or ye, grave topers, who with coy delightSnugly enjoy the sweetness of the night;Ye travellers all, superior Inns deniedBy moderate purse, the low by decent pride;Come and determine,--will you take your placeAt the full Orb, or half the lunar Face?With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine?Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine?Horses the white or black will ye prefer?The Silver-Swan or Swan opposed to her -Rare bird! whose form the raven-plumage decks,And graceful curve her three alluring necks?All these a decent entertainment give,And by their comforts comfortably live.Shall I pass by the Boar?--there are who cry,'Beware the Boar,' and pass determined by:Those dreadful tusks, those little peering eyesAnd churning chaps, are tokens to the wise.There dwells a kind old Aunt, and there you seeSome kind young Nieces in her company;Poor village nieces, whom the tender dameInvites to town, and gives their beauty Fame;The grateful sisters feel th' important aid,And the good Aunt is flatter'd and repaid.What, though it may some cool observers strike,That such fair sisters should be so unlike;That still another and another comes,And at the matron's tables smiles and blooms;That all appear as if they meant to stayTime undefined, nor name a parting day;And yet, though all are valued, all are dear,Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear.Yet let Suspicion hide her odious head,And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread;A pious friend, who with the ancient dameAt sober cribbage takes an evening game;His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs,And oft renews, and innocently laughs;Or growing serious, to the text resorts,And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports;While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend,A grave protector and a powerful friend:But Slander says, who indistinctly sees,Once he was caught with Sylvia on his knees; -A cautious burgess with a careful wifeTo be so caught!--'tis false, upon my life.Next are a lower kind, yet not so lowBut they, among them, their distinctions know;And when a thriving landlord aims so high,As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye,Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs,He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs.Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to

sayWhat favourite Inn shall share his evening's pay;Where he shall sit the social hour, and loseHis past day's labours and his next day's views.Our Seamen too have choice; one takes a tripIn the warm cabin of his favourite Ship;And on the morrow in the humbler BoatHe rows till fancy feels herself afloat;Can he the sign--Three Jolly Sailors--pass,Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass?The Anchor too affords the seaman joys,In small smoked room, all clamour, crowd, and

noise;Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire,Where fifty voices purl and punch require;They come for pleasure in their leisure hour,And they enjoy it to their utmost power;Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while allCall, or make ready for a second call:There is no time for trifling--'Do ye see?We drink and drub the French extempore.'See! round the room, on every beam and balk,Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk;Yet nothing heeded--would one stroke sufficeTo blot out all, here honour is too nice, -'Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things,We're British tars, and British tars are kings.'But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung,Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung?His sign his image,--for he was once seenA squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green;Ere yet, with wages more and honour less,He stood behind me in a graver dress.James in an evil hour went forth to wooYoung Juliet Hart, and was her Romeo:They'd seen the play, and thought it vastly sweetFor two young lovers by the moon to meet;The nymph was gentle, of her favours free,E'en at a word--no Rosalind was she;Nor, like that other Juliet, tried his truthWith--'Be thy purpose marriage, gentle youth?'But him received, and heard his tender tale,When sang the lark, and when the nightingale;So in few months the generous lass was seenI' the way that all the Capulets had been.Then first repentance seized the amorous man,And--shame on love!--he reason'd and he ran;The thoughtful Romeo trembled for his purse,And the sad sounds, 'for better and for worse.'Yet could the Lover not so far withdraw,But he was haunted both by Love and Law;Now Law dismay'd him as he view'd its fangs,Now Pity seized him for his Juliet's pangs;Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail,Where all would blame him, and where none might

bail;These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appear'd,Where love had drawn him when he should have

fear'd.There sat the father in his wicker throne,Uttering his curses in tremendous tone:With foulest names his daughter he reviled,And look'd a very Herod at the child:Nor was she patient, but with equal scorn,Bade him remember when his Joe was born:Then rose the mother, eager to beginHer plea for frailty, when the swain came in.To him she turn'd, and other theme began,Show'd him his boy, and bade him be a man;'An honest man, who, when he breaks the laws,Will make a woman honest if there's cause.'With lengthen'd speech she proved what came to passWas no reflection on a loving lass:'If she your love as wife and mother claim,What can it matter which was first the name?But 'tis most base, 'tis perjury and theft,When a lost girl is like a widow left;The rogue who ruins .. ' here the father foundHis spouse was treading on forbidden ground.'That's not the point,' quoth he, 'I don't

supposeMy good friend Fletcher to be one of those;What's done amiss he'll mend in proper time -I hate to hear of villany and crime:'Twas my misfortune, in the days of youth,To find two lasses pleading for my truth;The case was hard, I would with all my soulHave wedded both, but law is our control;So one I took, and when we gain'd a home,Her friend agreed--what could she more?--to come;And when she found that I'd a widow'd bed,Me she desired--what could I less?--to wed.An easier case is yours: you've not the smartThat two fond pleaders cause in one man's heart.You've not to wait from year to year distress'd,Before your conscience can be laid at rest;There smiles your bride, there sprawls your new-

born son,A ring, a licence, and the thing is done.' -'My loving James,'--the Lass began her plea,I'll make thy reason take a part with me;Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind,Or to thy person or thy passion blind;Had I refused, when 'twas thy part to pray,Or put thee off with promise and delay;Thou might'st in justice and in conscience fly,Denying her who taught thee to deny:But, James, with me thou hadst an easier task,Bonds and conditions I forbore to ask;I laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans,Nor marriage named by licence or by banns;Nor would I now the parson's aid employ,But for this cause,'--and up she held her boy.Motives like these could heart of flesh resist?James took the infant and in triumph kiss'd;Then to his mother's arms the child restored,Made his proud speech and pledged his worthy word.'Three times at church our banns shall publish'd

be,Thy health be drunk in bumpers three times three;And thou shalt grace (bedeck'd in garments gay)The christening-dinner on the wedding-day.'James at my door then made his parting bow,Took the Green-Man, and is a master now.

Hermann And Dorothea - II. Terpsichore

HERMANN.

THEN when into the room the well-built son made his entry,Straightway with piercing glances the minister eyed him intently,And with carefulness watch'd his looks and the whole of his bearing,With an inquiring eye which easily faces decyphers;Then he smiled, and with cordial words address'd him as follows'How you are changed in appearance, my friend! I never have seen youHalf so lively before; your looks are thoroughly cheerful.You have return'd quite joyous and merry. You've doubtless dividedAll of the presents amongst the poor, their blessings receiving.'

Then in calm accents replied the son, with gravity speaking'Whether I've laudably acted, I know not; I follow'd the impulseOf my own heart, as now I'll proceed to describe with exactness.Mother, you rummaged so long, in looking over old pieces,And in making your choice, that 'twas late when the bundle was ready,And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack'd up.When I at length emerged at the gate, and came on the highway,Streams of citizens met I returning, with women and children,For the train of the exiles had long disappear'd in the distance.So I quicken'd my pace, and hastily drove to the villageWhere I had heard that to-night to rest and to sleep they intended.Well, as I went on my way, the newly-made causeway ascending,Suddenly saw I a waggon, of excellent timber constructed,Drawn by a couple of oxen, the best and the strongest of foreign.Close beside it there walk'd, with sturdy footsteps, a maiden,Guiding the two strong beasts with a long kind of staff, which with skill sheKnew how to use, now driving, and now restraining their progress.When the maiden observed me, she quietly came near the horses,And address'd me as follows:--'Our usual condition, believe me,Is not so sad as perchance you might judge from our present appearance.I am not yet accustom'd to ask for alms from a stranger,Who so often but gives, to rid himself of a beggar.But I'm compell'd to speak by necessity. Here on the straw nowLies the lately-confined poor wife of a wealthy landowner,Whom with much trouble I managed to save with oxen and waggon.We were late in arriving, and scarcely with life she escaped.Now the newly-born child in her arms is lying, all naked,And our friends will be able to give them but little assistance,E'en if in the next village, to which to-night we are going,We should still find them, although I fear they have left it already.If you belong to the neighbourhood, any available linenThese poor people will deem a most acceptable present.

'Thus she spake, and wearily raised herself the pale patientUp from the straw and gazed upon me, while thus I made answer'Oft doth a heavenly spirit whisper to kind-hearted people,So that they feel the distress o'er their poorer brethren impending;For my mother, your troubles foreboding, gave me a bundleReady prepared for relieving the wants of those who were naked.'Then I loosen'd the knots of the cord, and the dressing-gown gave herWhich belong'd to my father, and gave her some shirts and some linen,And she thank'd me with joy and said:--'The fortunate know notHow 'tis that miracles happen; we only discover in sorrowGod's protecting finger and hand, extended to beckonGood men to good. May your kindness to us by Him be requited.'And I saw the poor patient joyfully handling the linen,Valuing most of all the soft flannel, the dressing-gown lining.Then the maid thus address'd her:--'Now let us haste to the villageWhere our friends are resting, to-night intending to sleep thereThere I will straightway attend to what e'er for the infant is needed.'Then she saluted me too, her thanks most heartily giving,Drove the oxen, the waggon went on. I lingerd behind them,Holding my horses rein'd back, divided between two opinions,Whether to hasten ahead, reach the village, the viands distribute'Mongst the rest of the people, or give them forthwith to the maiden,So that she might herself divide them amongst them with prudenceSoon I made up my mind, and follow'd after her softly,Overtook her without delay, and said to her quickly'Maiden, it was not linen alone that my mother providedAnd in the carriage placed, as clothing to give to the naked,But she added meat, and many an excellent drink too;And I have got quite a stock stow'd away in the boot of the carriage.Well, I have taken a fancy the rest of the gifts to depositIn your hands, and thus fulfil to the best my commission;You will divide them with prudence, whilst I my fate am obeying.'Then the maiden replied:--'With faithfulness I will distributeAll your gifts, and the needy shall surely rejoice at your bounty.'Thus she spake, and I hastily open'd the boot of the carriage,Took out the hams (full heavy they were) and took out the bread-stuffs,Flasks of wine and beer, and handed the whole of them over.Gladly would I have given her more, but empty the boot was.Straightway she pack'd them away at the feet of the patient, and forthwithStarted again, whilst I hasten'd back to the town with my horses.'

Then when Hermann had ended his story, the garrulous neighbourOpen'd his mouth and exclaim'd:--'I only deem the man happyWho lives alone in his house in these days of flight and confusion,Who has neither wife nor children cringing beside himI feel happy at present; I hate the title of father;Care of children and wife in these days would be a sad drawback.Often have I bethought me of flight, and have gather'd togetherAll that I deem most precious, the antique gold and the jewelsWorn by my late dear mother, not one of which has been sold yet.Much indeed is left out, that is not so easily carried.Even the herbs and the roots, collected with plenty of trouble,I should he sorry to lose, though little in value they may be.If the dispenser remains, I shall leave my house in good spiritsIf my ready money is saved, and my body, why trulyAll is saved, for a bachelor easily flies when 'tis needed.'

'Neighbour,' rejoin'd forthwith young Hermann, with emphasis speaking'Altogether I differ, and greatly blame your opinions.Can that man be deem'd worthy, who both in good and ill fortuneThinks alone of himself, and knows not the secret of sharingSorrows and joys with others, and feels no longing to do so?I could more easily now than before determine to marryMany an excellent maiden needs a husband's protection,Many a man a cheerful wife, when sorrow's before him.'Smilingly said then the father:--'I'm pleas'd to hear what you're saying,Words of such wisdom have seldom been utter'd by you in my presence.

Then his good mother broke in, in her turn, with vivacity speaking'Son, you are certainly right. We parents set the example.'Twas not in time of pleasure that we made choice of each other,And 'twas the saddest of hours, that knitted us closely together.Monday morning,--how well I remember! the very day afterThat most terrible fire occurr'd which burnt down the borough,Twenty years ago now; the day, like to-day, was a Sunday,Hot and dry was the weather, and little available water.All the inhabitants, clothed in their festival garments, were walking,Scatter'd about in the inns and the mills of the neighbouring hamlets.At one end of the town the fire broke out, and the flames ranHastily all through the streets, impell'd by the draught they created.And the barns were consumed, where all the rich harvest was gather'dAnd all the streets as far as the market; the dwelling house alsoOf my father hard by was destroy'd, as likewise was this one.Little indeed could we save; I sat the sorrowful night throughOn the green of the town, protecting the beds and the boxes.Finally sleep overtook me, and when by the cool breeze of morningWhich dies away when the sun arises I was awaken'd,Saw I the smoke and the glow, and the half-consumed walls and the chimneys.Then my heart was sorely afflicted; but soon in his gloryRose the sun more brilliant than ever, my spirits reviving.Then in haste I arose, impell'd the site to revisitWhere our dwelling had stood, to see if the chickens were livingWhich I especially loved; for childlike I still was by nature.But when over the ruins of courtyard and house I was climbing,Which still smoked, and saw my dwelling destroy'd and deserted,You came up on the other side, the ruins exploring.You had a horse shut up in his stall; the still-glowing raftersOver it lay, and rubbish, and nought could be seen of the creature.Over against each other we stood, in doubt and in sorrow,For the wall had fallen which used to sever our courtyards;And you grasp'd my hand, addressing me softly as follows'Lizzy, what here are you doing? Away! Your soles you are burning,For the rubbish is hot, and is scorching my boots which are thicker.'Then you lifted me up, and carried me off through your courtyard.There still stood the gateway before the house, with its arch'd roof,Just as it now is standing, the only thing left remaining.And you sat me down and kiss'd me, and I tried to stop you,But you presently said, with kindly words full of meaning'See, my house is destroy'd! Stop here and help me to build it,I in return will help to rebuild the house of your father.'I understood you not, till you sent to my father your mother,And ere long our marriage fulfilid the troth we soon plighted.Still to this day I remember with pleasure the half-consumed rafters,Still do I see the sun in all his majesty rising,For on that day I gain'd my husband; the son of my youth tooGained I during that earliest time of the wild desolation.Therefore commend I you, Hermann, for having with confidence guilelessTurn'd towards marriage your thoughts in such a period of mourning,And for daring to woo in war and over the ruins.--'

Then the father straightway replied, with eagerness speaking:--'Sensible is your opinion, and true is also the storyWhich you have told us, good mother, for so did ev'rything happen.But what is better is better. 'Tis not the fortune of all menAll their life and existence to find decided beforehand;All are not doom'd to such troubles as we and others have suffer'd.O, how happy is he whose careful father and motherHave a house ready to give him, which he can successfully manage!All beginnings are hard, and most so the landlords profession.Numberless things a man must have, and ev'rything dailyDearer becomes, so he needs to scrape together more money.So I am hoping that you, dear Hermann, will shortly be bringingHome to us a bride possessing an excellent dowry,For a worthy husband deserves a girl who is wealthy,And 'tis a capital thing for the wish'd-for wife to bring with herPlenty of suitable articles stow'd in her baskets and boxes.Not in vain for years does the mother prepare for her daughterStocks of all kinds of linen, both finest and strongest in texture;Not in vain do god-parents give them presents of silver,Or the father lay by in his desk a few pieces of money.For she hereafter will gladden, with all her goods and possessions,That happy youth who is destined from out of all others to choose her.Yes! I know how pleasant it makes a house for a young wife,When she finds her own property placed in the rooms and the kitchen,And when she herself has cover'd the bed and the table.Only well-to-do brides should be seen in a house, I consider,For a poor one is sure at last to be scorn'd by her husband,And he'll deem her a jade who as jade first appear'd with her bundle.Men are always unjust, but moments of love are but transient.Yes, my Hermann, you greatly would cheer the old age of your fatherIf you soon would bring home a daughter-in-law to console me,Out of the neighbourhood too,--yes, out of yon dwelling, the green one!Rich is the man, in truth his trade and his manufacturesMake him daily richer, for when does a merchant not prosper?He has only three daughters; the whole of his wealth they'll inherit.True the eldest's already engaged; but then there's the second,And the third, who still (not for long) may be had for the asking.Had I been in your place, I should not till this time have waited;Bring home one of the girls, as I brought your mother before you.

Then, with modesty, answer'd the son his impetuous father'Truly my wish was, like yours, to marry one of the daughtersOf our neighbour. We all, in fact, were brought up together,Sported in youthful days near the fountain adjoining the market,And from the rudeness of boys I often managed to save them.But those days have long pass'd the maidens grew up, and with reasonStop now at home and avoid the rougher pastimes of childhood.Well brought up with a vengeance they are! To please you, I sometimesWent to visit them, just for the sake of olden acquaintanceBut I was never much pleased at holding intercourse with them,For they were always finding fault, and I had to bear itFirst my coat was too long, the cloth too coarse, and the colourFar too common, my hair was cut and curl'd very badly.I at last was thinking of dressing myself like the shop-boys,Who are accustom'd on Sundays to show off their persons up yonder,And round whose coats in summer half-silken tatters are hanging.But ere long I discover'd they only intended to fool meThis was very annoying, my pride was offended, but more stillFelt I deeply wounded that they so mistook the good feelingsWhich I cherish'd towards them, especially Minnie, the youngest.Well, I went last Easter, politely to pay them a visit,And I wore the new coat now hanging up in the closet,And was frizzled and curld, like all the rest of the youngsters.When I enter'd, they titter'd; but that didn't very much matter.Minnie sat at the piano, the father was present amongst them,Pleased with his daughter's singing, and quite in a jocular humour.Little could I understand of the words in the song she was singing,But I constantly heard of Pamina, and then of Tamino,*

(* Characters In Mozart's Zauberflote.)And I fain would express my opinion; so when she had ended,I ask'd questions respecting the text, and who were the persons.All were silent and smiled; but presently answer'd the father'Did you e'er happen, my friend, to hear of Eve or of Adam?'Then no longer restrain'd they themselves, the girls burst out laughing,All the boys laugh'd loudly, the old man's sides appear'd splitting.In my confusion I let my hat fall down, and the titt'ringLasted all the time the singing and playing continued.Then I hasten'd home, ashamed and full of vexation,Hung up my coat in the closet, and put my hair in disorderWith my fingers, and swore ne'er again to cross o'er their threshold.And I'm sure I was right; for they are all vain and unloving.And I hear they're so rude as to give me the nickname Tamino.'Then the mother rejoin'd:--'You're wrong, dear Hermann, to harbourAngry feelings against the children, for they are but children.Minnie's an excellent girl, and has a tenderness for you;Lately she ask'd how you were. Indeed, I wish you would choose her!'

Then the son thoughtfully answer'd:--'I know not why, but the fact isMy annoyance has graven itself in my mind, and hereafterI could not bear at the piano to see her, or list to her singing.'

But the father sprang up, and said, in words full of anger'Little comfort you give me, in truth! I always have said it,When you took pleasure in horses, and cared for nothing but fieldwork;That which the servants of prosperous people perform as their duty,You yourself do; meanwhile the father his son must dispense with,Who in his honour was wont to court the rest of the townsfolk.Thus with empty hopes your mother early deceived me,When your reading, and writing, and learning at school ne'er succeededLike the rest of the boys, and so you were always the lowest.This all comes from a youth not possessing a due sense of honour,And not having the spirit to try and raise his position.Had my father but cared for me, as I have for you, sir,Sent me to school betimes, and given me proper instructors,I should not merely have been the host of the famed Golden Lion.'

But the son arose, and approach'd the doorway in silence,Slowly, and making no noise: but then the father in dudgeonAfter him shouted:--'Be off! I know you're an obstinate fellow!Go and look after the business; else I shall scold you severely;But don't fancy I'll ever allow you to bring home in triumphAs my daughter-in-law any boorish impudent hussy.Long have I lived in the world, and know how to manage most people,Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen, so that they leave meIn good humour, and know how to flatter a stranger discreetly.But my daughter-in-law must have useful qualities also,And be able to soften my manifold cares and vexations.She must also play on the piano, that all the best peopleHere in the town may take pleasure in often coming to see us,As in the house of our neighbour the merchant happens each Sunday.'Softly the son at these words raised the latch, and left the apartment.

Mogg Megone - Part I.

Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?Close to the verge of the rock is he,While beneath him the Saco its work is doing,Hurrying down to its grave, the sea,And slow through the rock its pathway hewing!Far down, through the mist of the falling river,Which rises up like an incense ever,The splintered points of the crags are seen,With water howling and vexed between,While the scooping whirl of the pool beneathSeems an open throat, with its granite teeth!

But Mogg Megone never trembled yetWherever his eye or his foot was set.He is watchful: each form in the moonlight dim,Of rock or of tree, is seen of him:He listens; each sound from afar is caught,The faintest shiver of leaf and limb:But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, -And the roar of their rushing, he bears it not.

The moonlight, through the open boughOf the gnarl'd beech, whose naked rootCoils like a serpent at his foot,Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow.His head is bare, save only whereWaves in the wind one lock of hair,Reserved for him, whoe'er he be,More mighty than Megone in strife,When breast to breast and knee to knee,Above the fallen warrior's lifeGleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife.

Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on:His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,And magic words on its polished blade, -'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone, For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn:His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, And Modocawando's wives had strungThe brass and the beads, which tinkle and shineOn the polished breach, and broad bright line Of beaded wampum around it hung.What seeks Megone? His foes are near, -Grey Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping, And the garrison lights are burning clear,Where Phillips' men their watch are keeping.Let him hie him away through the dank river fog,Never rustling the boughs nor displacing the rocks,For the eyes and the ears which are watching for MoggAre keener than those of the wolf or the fox.

He starts, - there's a rustle among the leaves: Another, - the click of his gun in heard!A footstep, - is it the step of Cleaves,With Indian blood on his English sword?Steals Harmon down from the sands of York,With hand of iron and foot of cork?Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung in isle?Hark! at that whistle, soft and low,How lights the eye of Mogg Megone!A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, -'Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython!'

Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro,The hunted outlaw, Bonython!A low, lean, swarthy man is he,With blanket-garb and buskined knee,And naught of English fashion on;For he hates the race from whence he sprung,And he couches his words in the Indian tongue.

'Hush, - let the Sachem's voice be weak; The water-rat shall hear him speak, -The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear,That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here!'He pauses, - dark, over cheek and brow,A flush, as of shame, is stealing now:'Sachem!' he says, 'let me have the land,Which stretches away upon either hand,As far about as my feet can strayIn the half of a gentle summer's day,From the leaping brook to the Saco river, -And the fair-hared girl, thou hast sought of me,Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and beThe wife of Mogg Megone forever.'

There's sudden light in the Indian's glance,A moment's trace of powerful feeling,Of love or triumph, or both perchance,Over his proud, calm features stealing.'The words of my father are very good;He shall have the land, and water, and wood;And he who harms the Sagamore John, Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone;But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast,And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest.'

'But, father!' - and the Indian's handFalls gently on the white man's arm,And with a smile as shrewdly blandAs the deep voice is slow and calm, -'Where is my father's singing-bird, -The sunny eye, and sunset hair?I know I have my father's word,And that his word is good and fair; But will my father tell me whereMegone shall go and look for his bride? - For he sees her not by her father's side.'

The dark, stern eye of Bonython Flashes over the features of Mogg Megone, In one of those glances which search within ;But the stolid calm of the Indian aloneRemains where the trace of emotion has been.'Does the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me,And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see.'

Cautious and slow, with pauses oft, And watchful eyes and whispers soft,The twain are stealing through the wood,Leaving the downward-rushing flood,Whose deep and solemn roar behind Grows fainter on the evening wind.Hark! - is that the angry howlOf the wolf, the hills among? -Or the hooting of the owl, On his leafy cradle swung? -Quickly glancing, to and fro, Listening to each sound they goRound the columns of the pine,Indistinct, in shadow, seemingLike some old and pillared shrine;With the soft and white moonshine,Round the foliage-tracery shedOf each column's branching head,For its lamps of worship gleaming!And the sounds awakened there,In the pine-leaves fine and small,Soft and sweetly musical,By the fingers of the air,For the anthem's dying fallLingering round some temple's wall!Niche and cornice round and roundWailing like the ghost of sound!Is not Nature's worship thus, Ceaseless ever, going on?Hath it not a voice for us In the thunder, or the toneOf the leaf-harp faint and small,Speaking to the unsealed earWords of blended love and fear,Of the mighty Soul of all?

Naught had the twain of thoughts like theseAs they wound along through the crowded trees,Where never had rung the axeman's stroke On the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked oak; -Climbing the dead tree's mossy log,Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine,Turning aside the wild grapevine,And lightly crossing the quaking bogWhose surface shakes at the leap of the frog,And out of whose pools the ghostly fog Creeps into the chill moonshine!Yet, even that Indian's ear had heardThe preaching of the Holy Word:Sanchekantacket's isle of sand Was once his father's hunting land,Where zealous Hiacoomes stood, -The wild apostle of the wood,Shook from his soul the fear of harm, And trampled on the Powwaw's charm;Until the wizard's curses hungSuspended on his palsying tongue, And the fierce warrior, grim and tall,Trembled before the forest Paul! A cottage hidden in the wood, -Red through its seams a light is glowing,On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude,A narrow lustre throwing.'Who's there?' a clear, firm voice demands;'Hold, Ruth, - 'tis I, the Sage more!'Quick, at the summons, hasty handsUnclose the bolted door;And on the outlaw's daughter shineThe flashes of the kindled pine.

Tall and erect the maiden stands,Like some young priestess of the wood,The freeborn child of Solitude,And bearing still the wild and rude,Yet noble trace of Nature's hands.Her dark brown cheek has caught its stainMore from the sunshine than the rain;Yet, where her long fair hair is parting,A pure white brow into light is starting;And, where the folds of her blanket sever,Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river.But in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip,There is something painful and sad to see;And her eye has a glance more sternly wildThan even that of a forest childIn its fearless and untamed freedom should be. Yet, seldom in hall or court are seenSo queenly a form and so noble a mien,As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, -Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone:'Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare?And, Sachem, say, - does Scamman wear,In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?'Hurried and light is the maiden's tone;But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone, -An awful meaning of guilt and sin! -The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair!With hand upraised, with quick drawn breath,She meets that ghastly sign of death.In one long, glassy, spectral stareThe enlarging eye is fastened there,As if that mesh of pale brown hairHad power to change at sight alone,Even as the fearful locks which woundMedusa's fatal forehead round,The gazer into stone. With such a look Herodias read The features of the bleeding head,So looked the mad Moor on his dead,Or the young Cenci as she stood,O'er-dabbled with a father's blood!

Look! - feeling melts that frozen glance,It moves that marble countenance,As if at once within her strovePity with shame, and hate with love.The Past recalls its joy and pain,Old memories rise before her brain, -The lips which love's embraces met,The hand her tears of parting wet,The voice whose pleading tones beguiledThe pleased ear of the forest-child, -And tears she may no more repressReveal her lingering tenderness.

O, woman wronged can cherish hateMore deep and dark than manhood may;But when the mockery of FateHath left Revenge its chosen way,And the fell curse, which years have nursed,Full on the spoiler's head hath burst, -When all her wrong, and shame, and pain,Burns fiercely on his heart and brain, -Still lingers something of the spellWhich bound her to the traitor's bosom, -Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell,Some flowers of old affection blossom.

John Bonython's eyebrows together are drawnWith a fierce expression of wrath and scorn, -He hoarsely whispers, 'Ruth, beware!Is this the time to be playing the fool, -Crying over a paltry lock of hair,Like a love-sick girl at school? -Curse on it! - an Indian can see and hear:Away, - and prepare our evening cheer!'

How keenly the Indian is watching nowHer tearful eye and her varying brow, -With a serpent eye, which kindles and burns,Like a fiery star in the upper air:On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns: -'Has my old white father a scalp to spare?For his young one loves the pale brown hairOf the scalp of an English dog far moreThan Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor;Go, - Mogg is wise: he will keep his land, -And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand,Shall miss his scalp where it grew before.

The moment's gust of grief is gone, -The lip is clenched, - the tears are still, -God pity thee, Ruth Bonython!With what a strength of willAre nature's feelings in thy breast,As with an iron hand, repressed!And how, upon that nameless woe,Quick as the pulse can come and go, While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yetThe bosom heaves, - the eye is wet, -Has thy dark spirit power to stayThe heart's wild current on its way? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Which over that still working browAnd tearful eye and cheek can throwThe mockery of a smile? Warned by her father's blackening frown,With one strong effort crushing downGrief, hate, remorse, she meets againThe savage murderer's sullen gaze,And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain.

'Is the Sachem angry, - angry with Ruth,Because she cries with an ache in her tooth,Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry,And look about with a woman's eye?No, - Ruth will sit in the Sachem's doorAnd braid the mats for his wigwam floor, And broil his fish and tender fawn, And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, -For she loves the brave and the wise, and noneAre braver and wiser than Mogg Megone!'

The Indian's brow is clear once more:With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye,He sits upon the wigwam floor,And watches Ruth go by,Intent upon her household care;And ever and anon, the while,Or on the maiden, or her fare,Which smokes in grateful promise there,Bestows his quiet smile.

Ah, Mogg Megone! - what dreams are thine,But those which love's own fancies dress, -The sum of Indian happiness! - A wigwam, where the warm sunshineLooks in among the groves of pine, -A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view,And the fair girl, before thee now,Or plying, in the dews of morn,Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn,Or offering up, at eve, to thee,Thy birchen dish of hominy!

From the rude board of Bonython,Venison and succotash have gone, -For long these dwellers want of food.But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer, -With head averted, yet ready ear,She stands by the side of her austere sire,Feeding, at times, the unequal fireWith the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree,Whose flaring light, as they kindle, fallsOn the cottage-roof, and its black log walls,And over its inmates three.

From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flaskThe fire-water burns at the lip of Megone:'Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask?Will he make his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land,From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand?'The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes,As he rises, the white man's bidding to do:'Wuttamuttata - weekan! Mogg is wise, -For the water he drinks is strong and new, -Mogg's heart is great! - will he shut his hand,When his father asks for a little land?' -With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawnOn the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow,'Boon water, - boon water, - Sagamore John!Wuttamuttata, - weekan! our hearts will grow!'He drinks yet deeper, - he mutters low, -He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, -His head falls down on his naked breast, -He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest.

'Humph - drunk as a beast!' - and Bonython's browIs darker than ever with evil thought - 'The fool has signed his warrant; but howAnd when shall the deed be wrought?Speak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there,To fix thy gaze in that empty air? -Speak, Ruth! by my soul, if I thought that tear,Which shames thyself and our purpose here,Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg,And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, -This - this!' - he dashes his hand uponThe rattling stock of his loaded gun, - 'Should send thee with him to do thy weeping!'

'Father!' - the eye of Bonython Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spokenBy the unmoving tongue of death, -Or from some statue's lips had broken, -A sound without a breath!'Father! - my life I value lessThan yonder fool his gaudy dress; And how it ends it matters not, By heart-break or by rifle-shot;But spare awhile the scoff and threat, -Our business is not finished yet.'

'True, true, my girl, - I only meantTo draw up again the bow unbent.Harm thee, my Ruth! I only soughtTo frighten off thy gloomy thought; Come, - let's be friends!' He seeks to claspHis daughter's cold, damp hand in his.Ruth startles from her father's grasp, As if each nerve and muscle felt,Instinctively, the touch of guilt,Through all their subtle sympathies.

He points her to the sleeping Mogg:'What shall be done with yonder dog?Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine, -The deed is signed and the land is mine; And this drunken fool is of use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth,'Twere Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth,Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor, -If not for thine, at least for his sake,Rather than let the poor dog awakeTo drain my flask, and claim as his brideSuch a forest devil to run by his side, -Such a Wetuomanit as thou wouldst make!'

He laughs at his jest. Hush - what is there? -The sleeping Indian is striving to rise,With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes! -'Wagh! - Mogg will have the pale-face's hair, For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can helpThe hair to pull and the skin to peel, -Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel,The great Captain Scamman must lose his scalp!And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg.'His eyes are fixed, - but his lips draw in, - With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin, -And he sinks again, like a senseless log.

Ruth does not speak, - she does not stir; But she gazes down on the murderer,Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of hell.She sees the knife, with its slaughter red,And the dark fingers clenching the bearskin bed!What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl!

John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye,Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, -But he drops it again. 'Some one may be nigh,And I would not that even the wolves should hear.'He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, -Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt; -Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian's side,From his throat he opens the blanket wide;And twice or thrice he feebly essaysA trembling hand with the knife to raise.

'I cannot,' - he mutters, - 'did he not saveMy life from a cold and wintry grave,When the storm came down from Agioochook,And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook, -And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow,Till my knees grew weak and I could not go, And I felt the cold to my vitals creep,And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep!I cannot strike him - Ruth Bonython! In the Devil's name, tell me - what's to be done?'

O, when the soul, once pure and high,Is stricken down from Virtue's sky, As, with the downcast star of morn,Some gems of light are with it drawn, -And, through its night of darkness, playSome tokens of its primal day, -Some lofty feelings linger still, -The strength to dare, the nerve to meetWhatever threatens with defeatIts all-indomitable will! -But lacks the mean of mind and heart,Though eager for the gains of crime,Oft, at his chosen place and time,The strength to bear his evil part; And, shielded by his very Vice,Escapes from Crime by Cowardice.

Ruth starts erect, - with bloodshot eye,And lips drawn tight across her teeth,Showing their locked embrace beneath,In the red firelight: - 'Mogg must die!Give me the knife!' - The outlaw turns,Shuddering in the heart and limb, away, -But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns,And he sees on the wall strange shadows play.A lifted arm, a tremulous blade,Are dimly pictured in light and shade,Plunging down in the darkness. Hark, that cryAgain - and again - he sees it fall, -That shadowy arm down the lighted wall!He hears quick footsteps - a shape flits by - The door on its rusted hinges creaks: -'Ruth - daughter Ruth!' the outlaw shrieks.But no sound comes back, - he is standing aloneBy the mangled corse of Mogg Megone!

The Merchant of Venice,: A Legend of Italy

I believe there are few But have heard of a Jew, Named Shylock, of Venice, as arrant a 'screw' In money transactions as ever you knew; An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent A ducat at less than three hundred per cent., Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice, Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies, When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Flight. It is not my purpose to pause and inquire If he might not, in managing thus to retire, Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire; Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do, Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.

But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives, We've been most of us taught in the course of our lives, That 'Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!' In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool, Bassanio, a Lord of the Tomnoddy school, Who, by showing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court, A 'swelling' (Payne Collier would read 'swilling') 'port,' And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup, Had shrunk his 'weak means,' and was 'stump'd,' and 'hard up,' Took occasion to send To his very good friend Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end, And who'd often before had the kindness to lend Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend.

'Antonio,' said he, 'Now listen to me; I've just hit on a scheme which, I think you'll agree, All matters consider'd, is no bad design, And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine. 'In the first place, you know all the money I've got, Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot, And in making those loans you have made a bad shot; Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows, -- Shoot another the same way -- I'll watch well its track, And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back! So list to my plan, And do what you can, To attend to and second it, that's a good man!

'There's a Lady, young, handsome, beyond all compare, at A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat Was giving last season, we all used to stare at, Then, as to her wealth, her solicitor told mine, Besides vast estates, a pearl fishery, and gold mine, Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks, It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions,' and 'Docks,' Not to speak of the money's she's got in the stocks, French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian, In English Exchequer-bills full half a million, Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all signed by Monteagle. Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways And more speculations I need not detail, ways Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think'em, Contribute a deal to improving one's income; In short, she's a Mint! -- Now I say, deuce is in't If with all my experience, I can't take a hint, And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print At the time that I told you of, know from a squint, In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony, Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan -- I Am sure of my game -- though, of course there are brutes, Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts, Yet Portia -- she's named from that daughter of Cato's-- Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes, And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson -- cut them all out -- Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her! -- Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed, For her Three-and-a-half per cents -- New and Reduced!'

With a wink of his eye His friend made reply In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry. 'Still the same boy, Bassanio -- never say 'die'! -- Well -- I hardly know how I shall do't, but I'll try.-- Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash, But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash; The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies, Tending, of course, my resources to cripple,-- I 've one bound to England,-- another to Tripoli-- Cyprus -- Masulipatam -- and Bombay;-- A sixth, by the way, I consigned t'other day To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais, A country where silver's as common as clay. Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back, What with Custom-house duties, and bills falling due, My account with Jones Loyd and Co. looks rather blue; While, as for the 'ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse,-- I really don't think there's five pounds in the house. But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat, And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat, And we'll go forth at once to the market -- we two,-- And try what my credit in Venice can do; I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money.'

They were going to go, When, lo! down below, In the street, they heard somebody crying, 'Old Clo'!' --'By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose!-- I knew We should not have to search long. Salanio, run you, -- Salarino,-- quick!-- haste! ere he get out of view, And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!'

With a pack, Like a sack Of old clothes at his back, And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack, Saying, 'Rest you fair, Signior Antonio!-- vat, pray, Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay!'

--'Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know, I am what they call 'warm,'-- pay my way as I go, And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend, I can break through a rule to oblige an old friend; And that's the case now -- Lord Bassanio would raise Some three thousand ducats -- well,-- knowing your ways, And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will, Unless you've a couple of names to the bill, Why, for once, I'll put mine to it, Yea, seal and sign to it -- Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say As to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day? Three thousand gold ducats, mind -- all in good bags Of hard money -- no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags?'

'-- Vell, ma tear,' says the Jew, 'I'll see vat I can do! But Mishter Antonio, hark you, 'tish funny You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!' Ven you very vell knows, How you shpit on ma clothes, And use naughty vords -- call me Dog -- and avouch Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch, And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch, You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch. -- Vell!--n o matters, ma tear,-- Von vord in your ear! I'd be friends mit you bote -- and to make dat appear, Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill, Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill; Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day Such sum or such sums, you shall fail to repay, I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke, A fair pound of your flesh -- chest by vay of a joke.'

So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause; But Antonio, like most of those sage 'Johnny Raws' Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws, And think cheaply of 'Old Father Antic,' because They have never experienced a gripe from his claws, 'Pooh pooh'd' the whole thing.--'Let the Smouch have his way, Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty?-- Nay, It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay: And, come what come may, I hardly need say My ships will be back a full month ere the day.' So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey, And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he Affixed with all speed His name to a deed, Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney. Thus again furnish'd forth, Lord Bassanio, instead Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread, With fiddling and masques, at the Saracen's Head, In the morning 'made play,' And without more delay, Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day. But scarcely had he From the harbour got free, And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea, Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's.

Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold, Was as ugly a dog as you' wish to behold, For few in his tribe 'mongst their Levis and Moseses, Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his, Still, whate'er the opinion of Horace and some be, Your aquilæ generate sometimes Columbæ, Like Jephthah, as Hamlet says, he'd 'one fair daughter,' And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her, A jewel -- a gem of the very first water; A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her, And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her, To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her, That the very same night Bassanio thought right To give all his old friends that farewell 'invite,' And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite, On 'wings made by a tailor' the damsel took flight.

By these 'wings' I'd express A grey duffle dress, With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule, For an upper-class boy in the National School. Jessy ransack'd the house, popp'd her breeks on, and when so Disguised, bolted off with her beau -- one Lorenzo, An 'Unthrift,' who lost not a moment in whisking Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin. Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket, And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket Who'd help'd her in getting aboard of the packet, Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing, And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing, Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest; And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded, For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did; But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way, The defunct Mr. P. who was now turned to clay, Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant, Left but a queer sort of 'Last will and testament,'-- Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land, &c., from motives one don't understand, As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing, To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing!

Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid, In one of three caskets her picture she hid, And clapp'd a conundrum a-top of each lid.

A couple of Princes, a black and a white one, Tried first, but they both fail'd in choosing the right one. Another from Naples, who shoe'd his own horses; A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count D'Orsay's;-- A young English Baron;-- a Scotch Peer his neighbour;-- A dull drunken Saxon, all moustache and sabre; All follow'd, and all had their pains for their labour. Bassanio came last -- happy man be his dole! Put his conjuring cap on,-- considered the whole,-- The gold put aside as Mere 'hard food for Midas,' The silver bade trudge As a 'pale common drudge;' Then choosing the little lead box in the middle, Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.

Now, you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say, Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day, Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact, Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing, Three months had gone by ere he reach'd the fifth act; Meanwhile that unfortunate bill became due, Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew, And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew, For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do; (The bitter old Israelite would not renew,) What with contrary winds, storms, wrecks, and embargoes, hisFunds were all stopp'd, or gone down in his argosies, None of the set having come into port, And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.

The serious news Of this step of the Jew's, And his fix'd resolution all terms to refuse, Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of 'the Blues,' Especially, too, as it came from the pen Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,-- then, When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and whenThe Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.

'Dear Friend,' it continued, 'all's up with me -- I Have nothing on earth now to do but to die! And, as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor; I should take it as kind Could you come -- never mind -- If your love don't persaude you, why,-- don't let this letter!'

I hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er Ere a post-chaise and four Was brought round to the door And Bassanio, though, doubtless, he thought it a bore, Gave his Lady one kiss, and then started at score. But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight Ere Portia, addressing a groom, said, 'My lad, you aJourney must take on the instant to Padua; Find out there Bellario,a Doctor of Laws, Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause, And give him this note, Which I've hastily wrote, Take the papers he'll give you -- then push for the ferry Below, where I'll meet you, you'll do't in a wherry, If you can't find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it -- Stay, bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it.'

Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack, Made a bow to his mistress, then jump'd on its back, Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack. The Signora soon follow'd herself, taking as herOwn escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthasar.

'The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met, The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!' As Captain Macheath says,-- and when one's in debt, The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know, Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose, As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes, They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose; Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state, With his waistcoat unbutton'd, prepared for the knife, Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life; -- On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor, And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before, Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands With his scales and his great snicker-snee in his hands: -- Between them, equipt in a wig, gown and bands, With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer, Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer, Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his possible To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline, And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine, Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine, Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line. But vain are all efforts to soften him -- still He points to the bond He so often has conn'd, And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will. So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse, Says, 'I can say no more -- let the law take its course.'

Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew, As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel, With a business-like air was beginning to feel Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal, When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel. 'Stay, Shylock,' says he, Here's one thing -- you see This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood! -- The words are 'A pound of flesh,'-- that's clear as mud -- Slice away, then, old fellow -- but mind!-- if you spill One drop of his claret that's not in your bill, I'll hang you, like Haman?-- By Jingo I will!'

When apprised of this flaw, You never yet saw Such an awfully mark'd elongation of jaw As in Shylock, who cried, 'Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?'-- Off went his three hats, And he look'd as the cats Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw. '-- Ish't the law?'-- why the thing won't admit of a query -- 'No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act; Acto quinto, cap. tertio, Dogi Falieri -- Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt, The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet. See Foscari's 'Statutes at large'--'If a Stranger A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger, The whole of his property, little or great, Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State, And one to the person pursued by his hate; And, not to create Any farther debate, The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.' So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy! Defendant and Plaintiff are now wisy wersy.'

What need to declare How pleased they all were At so joyful an end to so sad an affair? Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken, His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?-- How Shylock got shaved, and turn'd Christian, though late, To save a life-int'rest in half his estate? How the dandified Lawyer, who'd managed the thing, Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring Which Mrs. Bassanio had given to her spouse, With injunctions to keep it on leaving the house?-- How when he, and the spark Who appeared as his clerk, Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty coats, There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats?-- How they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel, Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel?-- How they scolded and broke out, Till having their joke out, They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed, Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night, Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight, Sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his Cressid?--

All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat, But a story spun out so's by no means a treat, So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains I have taken to rummage among his remains, No edition of Shakspeare, I've met with, contains; But, if the account which I've heard be the true one, We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.

In an MS., then sold For its full weight in gold, And knock'd down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain, Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain; Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again, Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main, Became known by the name of the 'Flower of Dumblane.'

That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen, Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine, And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint, Acquired the well-merited prefix of 'Saint,' And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount, Having given him a patent, and made him a Count, He went over to England, got nat'ralis'd there, And espous'd a rich heiress in Hanover Square.

That Shylock came with him; no longer a Jew, But converted, I think may be possibly true, But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver, By changing the y in his name into er, Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up, And in Seventeen-twenty-eight make him a Bishop, I cannot believe--but shall still think them two men Till some Sage proves the fact 'with his usual acumen.'

MORAL.

From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard If an editor can't draw a moral.--'Tis clear, Then,-- In ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor's ear A maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums, 'PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO CONUNDRUMS!!'

To new-married ladies this lesson it teaches, 'You're "no that far wrong" in assuming the breeches!'

Monied men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants it schools To look well to assets -- nor play with edge tools! Last of all, this remarkable History shows men, What caution they need when they deal with old-clothesmen! So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary, And never let one of them come down the are'